


Cairo

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [20]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 104,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2484848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission in Cairo. A car bomb and a body. Everybody at SHIELD, even Phil, thinks he's dead and Clint knows SHIELD doesn't mount rescues, especially not for dead men. But 'alone' is something he's used to so he'll do what he does best - survive. *Vantage Point Universe*NO-SLASH*Pre-Avengers*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Hear The Voices When I'm Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

 

 

 

_Surprise! We are here again. Another multi-chapter installment in the Vantage Point Universe. It has been a very long time since the last one, I know. But as most of you know, I was expecting my first child. Well…he has arrived! He was born August 27_ _th_ _at 12:37am – 7lbs 12oz and 21 ½ inches long. He's nearly 8 weeks old now and I finally have some time here and there to breathe and sit down at my computer. That's good for you guys because that means it's time for a new story! To further explain my long absense, I also moved from South Carolina to New York when the little man was only 4 weeks old. So it's been a hectic few months! :D_

_Now, on to what you've all been waiting for, "Cairo". We are stepping way back in the timeline to just under a year and a half after Clint came to SHIELD (as seen in "Youngest in History") so those of you that are loyal readers know that means we are in for some sad, angsty Clint! Whoo hoo!_

_But first, I've got some thanks to hand out._

_First and foremost –_ _**Kylen** _ _**.** _ _You all know she is my beta but she's also my good, good friend. She has been so patient and supportive as I've gone through LONG bouts of baby-distraction and writer's block. I cannot sing enough praises about her! And if you haven't checked out HER story Afghanistan, you SHOULD!_

_Next, wonderful thanks to the ever patient and helpful,_ _**JRBarton.** _ _She is new to our team and this fic is her first foray into the wonderful world of Vantage Point. She has also been helping me – and by helping, I mean she's been DOING this and I've been in awe – iron out a very detailed timeline of Clint's life as seen through this universe. It is so awesome and I will be eternally grateful!_

_Thanks also to all of you who sent me PMs over the last several months. You all brighten my day and inspire me with every message you send! Without you guys, I don't know if I'd be nearly as motivated to work through writer's block when it strikes!_

_Now…ONWARD!_

* * *

_Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars._

_**Khalil Gibran** _

* * *

_It was the rain that woke him from his half-aware doze. Laying out flat on his stomach, chin pillowed on his stacked hands and hand-held scope resting on the roof's edge right in front of him, Hawkeye had been letting his weary mind rest while his senses kept track of the world around him. It was just a waiting game at the moment. The board was set, the pieces were in motion. He was just waiting for the chance to make the final move._

_The first cold drop landed on his nose and sent a spike of adrenaline through his system, every muscles suddenly thrumming with tension. He blinked and rolled his eyes up in his head to glare at the sky without actually having to move his head._

_Of_ _**course** _ _it was going to rain. It wasn't like it was the edge of fucking winter in Russia or anything. Why couldn't it just be snow? Why did it have to be_ _**rain** _ _? He hated the fucking rain._

_It could have been worse. It could have been the_ _**dead** _ _of fucking winter in Russia._

_But Hawkeye wasn't prone to seeing the bright side all that often these days so he brushed that 'glass half full' thought aside with a scowl and settled instead on his own 'the glass is fucking empty and just shattered in my hand' thought._

_He'd probably get pneumonia. Maybe literally 'catch his death'. Wouldn't that be god damned_ _**perfect** _ _?_

_The rain picked up just as the target's car rolled to a stop and Hawkeye could swear it was the universe's way of screwing with him._

_He shifted, bracing his hands under his shoulders and pushed up. He hopped his legs forward so that he could stand, and snagged his bow from the rooftop with one hand and the scope with the other as he stood. He also pocketed the scope – he wouldn't need it now that he wasn't passing the time by counting the bricks on the face of the small townhouse – and reached back for an arrow as the car door opened._

_He set the arrow and then scowled as he had to reach and wipe his drenched hair aside on his forehead so it would stop dripping into his eyes. Then he drew the arrow and sighted. It was perfect. She was just getting home, her twin 7-year-old boys would be at their father's for the weekend and would never see the body. She climbed out of the car, barely able to juggle her briefcase and the stack of papers she'd brought home with her._

_As soon as she reached the front door, he'd have his shot. He'd sighted it almost two dozen times already over the past four days. The rain picked up, making it difficult to see the distance to his target._

_But he wasn't called Hawkeye for nothing._

_She stopped at the door, barely keeping hold of her papers as she fumbled for her key._

_Bow string drawn back to his cheek, eyes narrowed, he blew out a breath._

_The universe could go fuck itself._

_He let the arrow fly._

_He knew it was going to strike true as soon as it left his fingers, but he watched anyway, his face set in stone. Just as it hit, burrowing deep into her back, between her ribs and straight into her heart, another car pulled up._

_Hawkeye clenched his jaw as the back door opened and a high-pitched scream rose in the air._

" _Mama!"_

_Shit._

_Two identical little boys tore from the car, a short, thick man stumbling out of the driver's side._

" _Nina!"_

_Hawkeye stumbled a step back from the roof's edge. Had they seen the arrow hit? Had they watched her stumble forward into the still-locked door and then crumble to the ground? Had those two kids just been scarred for life – by_ _**him** _ _?_

_Hawkeye shook his head and turned away, moving toward the opposite side of the rooftop._

_It didn't matter._

_He didn't care._

_He_ _**didn't** _ _._

_He repeated it to himself as he kicked into a run, leaping from his rooftop to the next. He landed in a roll, pulled his bowstring over his head and settled the bow against his back as he rose. He sprinted across the wet rooftop to the next one._

_He didn't care._

_He hit the next roof, which was steeply slanted on both sides and came to a high apex. He barely managed to catch his hands on the peak before the slick roofing could work against him. He pulled himself over the top edge and let himself slide._

_For a moment – one so brief it could barely even be counted as occurring – he considered letting himself slide right off the edge of the roof, down the three stories to the alley floor below. It was probably better than he deserved._

_But as the edge rushed to greet him, his ingrained will to_ _**survive** _ _– also arguably his most honed talent – kicked in. He found his feet just in time to push off the edge and leap for the ledge of the next rooftop._

_He'd been told more than once that he was a survivor – a fighter. Going quietly wasn't in his DNA and 'quit' was the worst four-letter word he knew. At the end of the day, Hawkeye knew he could count on one thing._

_He would survive – no matter what, no matter how._

_And right now – survival meant one thing. It had nothing to do with rain or rooftops and everything to do with 7-year-old boys and screams for mama._

_He didn't fucking care._

_He couldn't._

* * *

Clint jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath, every muscle tensing as he dug his elbows into the bed beneath him and sat up.

He was more surprised than pained by the hard metal surface his forehead slammed into.

"Son of a  _bitch_."

He reached to touch his now marginally tender forehead as he dropped back and glared at whatever had attacked him.

Oh right.

Not bed.

Air duct.

He blew out a breath and let his arms fall bonelessly back down to the metal beneath him.

He worked silently to slow his breathing and bring his racing heart back under control. Only when he was satisfied with the rhythm of both, he started working his way out of the duct. He shoved the duct cover out of the way irritably. His irritation only grew when it flew far enough to slam into the edge of his dresser.

He muttered darkly to himself as he folded himself out of the air duct and flipped out to the ground. He squatted next to his dresser, kicking the air duct cover away and running his fingers over the fresh gouge in the wood.

Two months this thing had been his and he hadn't so much as given it a scratch. It had been his first dresser since he was six years old and he'd treated it like it was made of gold.

And that had absolutely  _nothing_  to do with Phil having been the one to give it to him. He barely withheld a sarcastic snort and fought the urge to call bullshit on  _himself_  about that.

He gave the air duct a glare for good measure as he sat back against the wall, pulling one knee up to his chest, resting his arm across it, and stretching the other leg out. Then he dropped his head back to the wall, letting it hit with a dull thud.

Six nights. Six goddamned nights he'd been pulled from sleep by a nightmare. It hadn't been like this since Phil first brought him in almost a year and a half ago. The dreams had never stopped and he doubted they ever would. But they'd grown fewer and farther between. He could sometimes go a whole week without even a whisper in his subconscious while he slept.

Once he'd gone a full 10 days. The dream that broke that dry spell had left him shaking and hyperventilating, sure, but 10 days was 10 days.

He hadn't been hit with six nights  _in a row_ like this since right after the Andes, which was almost a fucking year ago. It felt like a hell of a big step backwards and was bringing his degree of frustration to a whole new level.

It was also methodically destroying his sleeping pattern, which was already screwed to hell all on its own.

Phil had been edging towards exhaustion right alongside him. Waking the man the first night had been no big deal. They'd talked it through and Clint had felt a little less self-destructive by the time they headed out for their morning run.

The second night had been more of an annoyance than anything. They'd both been tired from the nearly sleepless night before, but Phil had just squeezed his shoulder and led the way to the roof. Back-to-back nights were fairly common.

The third night – a wicked Andes flashback – Clint had pretended to be fine after about an hour and let Phil walk him back to his room. He'd then proceeded to lay on his bed and stare at his ceiling until 4am. But at least Phil had gotten to go back to sleep.

The fourth night he'd dreamed of Barney. He spent the rest of the night splitting his time between running endless laps on the track and sitting hidden up in the shadows of the catwalks. Then of course, Phil had read it all over his expression the following morning and practically read him the riot act. Only to take all the heat out of the scolding in the end by sincerely asking if he was okay.

So when he'd woken up in a shaking sweat last night – the fifth night – a name reverberating mercilessly through his brain, he'd trotted on over to Phil's room and to the roof they'd gone.

And here he was again – night  _six_. As dreams went, this one had been fairly tame. He didn't need Phil to calm him down or offer silent comfort. There was no hyperventilating. No injuries relived. No memories of betrayal and terror. Just a name from the ledger. Just the memory of the one and only time he'd screwed his execution and been the reason two 7-year-old boys witnessed their mother's demise.

No big deal.

He didn't care.

Clint clenched his hands into fists and ground his teeth together and called bullshit on himself.

He cared – too damn much.

He cared so much his hands were shaking and his throat was tight. He cared so much he found himself resisting the urge to look up Andrei and Artur Barsukov just to make sure they'd survived witnessing something no child should ever have to witness.

He would know after all.

The image of his mom, bleeding and broken in the front seat of their van flashed unbidden through his mind. The sight of his dad, gaze unseeing and body awkwardly slumped followed quickly in its wake. It had him clenching his eyes closed and rubbing at them with his palms.

Clint blew out a sharp breath, shook his head, and pushed himself to his feet. He forced himself to take the time to pull on sweat pants, shoes and his old Army hoodie. It was mid-November and more than likely the temperature outside was settled somewhere in the realm of 'damn cold.' If it was colder than that…well then, he'd just suck it up.

* * *

He stood immobile in front of Phil's door for a long time. More than once he'd raised his hand like he was going to knock only to abort the action before ever really attempting it. Phil was tired. Clint  _knew_  he was. One night off from playing all the kings horses and all the kings men to Clint's humpty dumpty of an emotional state hadn't really been enough to keep the creeping exhaustion at bay.

A round of pummeling a punching bag in the gym – or better yet some target practice in the range – sounded more appealing than sitting on the roof with Phil's calm and understanding presence.

But getting a strip torn off in the morning because he  _hadn't_  woken him just wasn't how he wanted to start his day. Because Phil would most  _definitely_ be able to tell how Clint had spent his night.

His handler had gotten annoyingly good at reading him over the last sixteen months.

And after all the anger and frustration was gone, his handler would bring out the big guns.

The emotional shit.

" _You don't have to carry this by yourself."_  He'd say.  _"Dealing with it alone has never really helped, has it?"_  He'd point out. Like Clint needed reminding of his tendency towards self-destructive punishment or its likeness to putting a Band-Aid on a gushing wound.

Then Phil's gaze would soften and he'd squeeze Clint's shoulder and repeat the one phrase that had – at different times – both pissed him off ten ways from Sunday and comforted him more than he could have ever believed.

" _You're not alone anymore."_

Clint sighed.  _Damn him_. He knocked.

It took a moment, but he didn't have to knock again. Within seconds, he heard a mattress creak, shuffling footsteps and then the sound of the lock disengaging. Then the door was swinging open and his handler was blinking tiredly at him.

Clad in sweat pants and a black t-shirt, Phil looked like the only place in the world he wanted to be was in bed. But instead, he was standing in his doorway, eyes clearing by the moment as they scanned Clint's face and posture.

"Again?" The sympathy in his voice matched the sympathy written in his expression.

Clint just nodded and buried his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. Phil drew in a deep breath and left the door standing open as he bent to retrieve his shoes – resting neatly next to the door. He slid them on, snagged a jacket from somewhere out of sight, and then stepped into the hallway to join Clint.

"Roof?"

Clint turned, headed towards the stairwell and let that be answer enough.

* * *

Phil lowered himself down to sit next to Clint, tossing a speculative look at his agent.

"What was it tonight?"

Clint just shook his head and huddled down into the collar of his hoodie, his shoulders hunching forward to accommodate the stretch in the fabric. Once his chin and mouth were sufficiently hidden within the folds of the sweatshirt, he went still and just stared out into the dark night. Phil narrowed his eyes and watched Clint's profile for a moment longer. Finally, once it became obvious that the 19 year old was content to pretend he couldn't feel Phil's stare, Phil sighed and pulled his gaze away.

It wasn't often that Clint wouldn't tell him about a dream. Barney was the usual culprit there, but this wasn't about him. Dreams about the night Clint had nearly died at his brother's hand usually resulted in dark, heavy silence and an even darker pain shining in his eyes. He never sought Phil out those nights. He preferred instead to go for a long run or a long ride on his motorcycle. By the time he gotten back some of the shadows had faded – or at least he'd gotten them sufficiently hidden.

No, this definitely hadn't been about Barney. Clint was entirely too calm and put together for it to have been about what happened with his brother.

The only other thing that brought this type of reaction out in him was a name – but not a normal name. Every so often, Clint would be haunted by a name that affected him so deeply that he couldn't even bring himself to confess it to Phil. Whether it was that the story was just too terrible to recount or that he didn't believe he deserved to have the burden lightened by sharing it with Phil wasn't really clear. Either way, Phil was usually just left floundering in the silence as a weight that looked terrifyingly tangible settled on Clint's shoulders.

If shame and self-loathing were visible, corporeal things, somehow he knew he'd see them resting on the archer's broad, young shoulders right now. Nights like this put Clint in a rare mood. It was a whole new brand of inconsolable – not as heartbreaking and painful as when it involved Barney, but no less extreme and frustrating.

He'd learned early on that on nights like this all Clint wanted was to be reminded that he wasn't alone. He didn't want comfort. He didn't want hollow absolutions. It was somehow enough for Phil to just sit with him and say nothing at all. That's what he needed, so that's what Phil did.

It was Clint that broke the stillness around them. He spoke without moving – his mouth still hidden in the collar of his hoodie.

"It's as bad as it was in the beginning."

Phil glanced at him and blew out a breath.

"It won't last forever. Eventually the cycle will break and things will settle down again."

Clint's eyes shifted over the dark landscape in front of them for a several moments before he responded.

"It's like I'm moving backwards. Like the past year hasn't even happened."

"It has." Phil assured firmly. The distance Clint had come since this time a year ago was immeasurable. To the outside observer, it may appear as if nothing had changed. The archer was still a smartass with a dark countenance. And he preferred to make enemies instead of friends. He was antisocial, almost severely so. On bad days he was still prone to dark, terrifying flashes of self-loathing anger. He still talked to authority figures with a regrettable lack of respect and tended to shirk doctor's orders more often than follow them.

But when it came to his relationship with Phil, everything had changed. A year ago they were only four months into Clint's training. The kid had been a mess back then. Every day had been a constant battle just to keep him from drowning in his own self-hatred.

Earning the young assassin's trust had been a long and hard fight. Every victory, no matter how small, had felt like cause for massive celebration. He still remembered the day Clint took the first Gatorade and Hershey bar and the memory never failed to bring a smile to Phil's lips. That day had been the first step that had led to more small steps and eventually to them in the middle of the Andes Mountains with an injured and surrounded Barton calmly asking Phil if he didn't think it was about time he called him Clint. He'd managed to pull the kid through that hellish catastrophe of a mission and the trust the archer was putting in him was finally made complete.

He'd given him his ledger.

It had been so unassuming to look at. Small enough to slide easily into a cargo pocket, it was leather bound and bore no outward markings to indicate what was written inside. To an ignorant third party, it probably looked like a journal, a harmless collection of someone's innermost thoughts. No one would ever think by looking at the innocent, weathered, brown leather cover that it hid a list of the dead. A list containing exactly 287 names and that acted as both a memorial and a confession.

It was a memorial to the people that had belonged to those names – the lives that had been cut short.

It was a confession of guilt by the man that had killed them.

" _So I would never forget,"_  Clint had told him with heartbreaking sincerity,  _"So that none of_ _ **them**_ _would be forgotten."_

Clint saw his ledger as a confession. Phil thought it was more like a salvation. The very fact that he had kept a record, had neatly and carefully written every name down, proved that even in his darkest moments, Clint hadn't been as lost as he thought he was. Some part of him – whether it was deeply hidden and ignored or not – had cared about the lives he was taking. Phil believed, without a doubt, that keeping that ledger had been the only thing to keep Clint from losing himself completely to the darkness that he'd been drowning in when Phil found him. It had kept him human, when it would have been so much easier not to be.

Phil blew out a breath, shaking himself from his reverie. He glanced at Clint again to find him unmoved. His blue-gray gaze was fixed on something off in the distance and what Phil could see of his face was set in stone.

He could almost hear the self-loathing thoughts rebounding around in the kid's head.

"The last year happened, Clint."

The archer blinked and it was the only indication that he was listening.

"You aren't alone anymore."

Something in Clint's expression tightened and Phil could see moisture gather in his gaze for a brief moment before he blinked it away. Phil hesitated then reached to slide his hand under the hood of Clint's sweatshirt, tightening his fingers through the thick material to put comforting pressure on the base of the kid's neck.

"All this shit. The dreams. The names. All of it. I'm right here with you, okay?" He tightened his hand. "You won't ever be alone in this, not ever again." The archer ducked his chin a little more, hiding more of his face in the folds of his hoodie. Phil used his hand to pull Clint slightly towards him before shifting him back to where he started. "Hey – you hearing me?"

Clint's stormy gaze remained fixed on his knees for a moment longer before he nodded and flexed his shoulders. Phil took the gesture for what it was and pulled his hand away. He didn't let it offend him. The fact that Clint had let him touch him at all spoke to the growing depth of their friendship. The kid shrugging him off when he'd had enough was a small price to pay for being able to offer the tactile comfort when it was needed. And for someone who tended to reject any contact that wasn't in the form of physical combat, the archer seemed to need it more often than you'd expect.

After Barney nightmares, it didn't seem like the kid would smile again until Phil had found a reason to squeeze his shoulder or the back of his neck. Something –  _anything_  – to physically remind him he wasn't alone. He knew Clint would never admit it and Phil would never point it out. But he was damn happy that  _he_  was the one that brought that comfort and reassurance.

"Why now?"

Phil felt his eyebrows rise in confusion. He barely resisted the urge to ask 'why what?' before his brain caught up. Clint wasn't privy to Phil's inner-monologue and was still focused on their current conversation.

Right. He needed to stay focused.

"I don't know, Clint. Could be that something is triggering them, something you haven't noticed."

Clint made a slight face, like he didn't quite buy that.

"Or…"

The archer's eyebrow rose expectantly.

"Or you let your subconscious be your worst enemy."

Clint frowned.

"You think I  _want_  to dream about this shit?"

Phil shook his head.

"No. But I think that you haven't let yourself off the hook for what you've done. And I think that because of that, maybe you don't let yourself off the hook in here either." He tapped his index finger against Clint's temple.

The archer leaned his head away to escape the finger.

"But I'm not just dreaming about names."

Phil inclined his head in assent.

"True. But the other stuff you dream about…The Andes, your parents, and…" he paused, knowing that saying Barney's name would bring a flinch and a flash of pain to the kid's eyes. But that was part of the problem, wasn't it? Clint couldn't let it go. Even so, Phil couldn't bring himself to willingly inflict pain like that, so he let the statement hang and continued, "Your subconscious plays a part with those too. Kid, you've got a memory like a steel trap and because of that you remember things that you shouldn't have to. What better weapon could your subconscious ask for than your own memories?"

Clint was quiet for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip. Finally he glanced at Phil – the first time he'd looked at him since they'd taken their seats on the ledge – and met his gaze.

"A weapon, huh?"

Phil nodded slowly.

"Because we both know, a part of you still thinks you deserve to be punished. Maybe this is just another way you're doing that – inadvertently or not."

Clint held his gaze, seeming to mull over that in his mind. When he didn't disagree, instead just nodded his head slightly and looked back at the landscape, Phil knew that whatever part of Clint still believed that…it was a lot bigger than the part that didn't.

" _You think I ever could?...Make it right?"_ Doubt and shame and sorrow had haunted the question when Clint had first asked him ten months ago _"It's not enough. It could never_ _ **be**_ _enough."_

Phil could see now – in every line of his face, in every angle of his posture, and in every fleck in his eyes – that Clint still believed those words. Words he'd snapped at Phil almost exactly a year ago.

Believed that no matter what he did, he could never make it right.

And Phil, no matter how much he longed to, didn't know if he'd ever be able to convince him he was wrong.

* * *

"If I have to stay in gen pop for another two months, I'm gonna kill somebody."

Phil sighed next to him. Clint glanced over as they walked back from the outdoor track. They still had their normal sparring session to get to before Clint had to muster for training with everyone else. General population training was getting to the point of being laughable for him. Even though he was doing a secondary workout with Phil in the mornings, he still coasted through the general training sessions like it was easy. One of the reasons he was hoping to get out of it – a teacher's note if you will.

"Seriously, Phil. I'm not even being figurative. I might literally kill somebody."

The expression on Phil's face suggested that he didn't necessarily disagree.

"Your final eval is in seven weeks. You  _know_  that I can't do anything about your general training schedule until you pass that."

"Yeah well, that's as stupid now as it was the first time you told me."

Phil rolled his eyes, but didn't disagree.

"What if I kill someone before then?"

Phil gave him a dry look as he pulled the door open and held it for Clint to enter first.

"Give it your best effort  _not_ to."

Clint let a wicked smirk overtake his lips.

"Accidents happen."

The light shove to his back was expected and did nothing but make him smile.

"Accidents? You wet your bed again, Barton?"

Clint's gaze snapped over to glare at Todd Bryan where he stood leaning casually against the wall. The tall black man was smirking at him with his arms crossed across his chest. Clint narrowed his eyes, wondering why the man was here so early.

"Actually, Bryan, we were discussing accidentally killing someone while sparring." Clint grinned darkly. "Wanna spar?"

Bryan laughed and pushed off the wall.

"That's actually exactly why he's here." Phil interjected as he came to stand next to Clint. "I've got a meeting."

Clint made sure not to show his disappointment in his expression. He liked Bryan – he really did – and knew outside of Phil he was the only one that could give Clint a decent sparring match.

But his training sessions with Phil, they were…well, they were  _his._

The idea of someone else, even Bryan, stepping in just felt wrong. Especially when he was still feeling a little raw from his nightmare. His defenses were only at 'Phil level' not 'rest of the world level.' Phil understood him, cared about him even. With Phil, he left those walls he built around himself less guarded because there was trust between them.

He liked Bryan, maybe even trusted him a little. But he wasn't Phil.

A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder and he looked at it then at the man it belonged to. Phil's gaze was oddly reassuring and understanding.

"The meeting is with Fury. If it goes how I expect it to, you won't be reporting for general training today."

Simultaneously frustrated that Phil had read him so easily and mollified by the explanation, Clint just nodded. Phil's hand tightened on his shoulder and then fell away.

"I'll come get you after the meeting."

Clint nodded again and watched Phil leave. He turned his gaze back to Bryan, frowning at the contemplative look on the man's face.

His frown morphed into a scowl that he hoped very clearly communicated a sharp and snarled  _'What?'_

The trainer's dark eyebrow rose at the hostile expression, but otherwise he appeared unaffected.

"You ready to get to work, princess?" Bryan drawled as he headed towards the training mat.

Clint rolled his eyes and followed.

* * *

Todd barely stifled a groan as his back slammed into the training mat.

"That all you got? It barely even tickled." He hoped his tone sounded less winded than he felt.

Barton's eyebrow quirked in vague amusement and he retreated a few steps to allow Todd to stand. He climbed to his feet slowly, barely stifling another groan as he did. Barton was eyeing him in the calculating, predatory fashion he eyed all his sparring partners. The archer looked relaxed in his stance, hands curled loosely at his sides and knees only slightly bent.

To anyone that didn't know him, he looked like his guard was down.

But Todd knew him – knew his fighting style at least – and Barton was never  _not_  on guard. He was willing to bet the kid slept with his guard up, ready to dive head first into battle at a moment's notice. Probably even slept with a weapon close at hand – like a soldier in the trenches.

Todd tilted his head, assessing Barton as they circled each other.

The kid was fascinating to watch. Every move he made had a purpose. No energy was wasted. A lot of that was courtesy of Phil's training. But you couldn't teach the natural, lethal grace Barton moved with. He was like a fucking panther on the prowl.

And right now, Todd was his prey.

Todd feinted left and then spun to his right, bringing his leg up for a high roundhouse. Barton ducked under his leg easily and as Todd completed the rotation, he threw a sharp, low jab into Todd's exposed kidney. Todd absorbed the blow and turned, squaring up to Barton and throwing a tight right jab, followed it quickly with a left hook. While Barton was expertly dodging and then ducking, Todd kicked sharply at his thigh.

Barton let the kick land, locked Todd's foot to his thigh with his hand, and then turned. He put his back to Todd's chest and – keeping Todd's foot trapped against his left leg with one hand – stepped over Todd's extended leg with his right foot. Now he was straddling Todd's leg, Todd's foot now trapped against Barton's right inner thigh.

As soon as the archer's weight settled on his right foot, he moved his left leg, but kept Todd's foot trapped in his hand. He shifted back, bending his knee and hooking his leg up between Todd's so Barton's heel was pressed against Todd's lower back.

"Shi…"

Barton's body turned, pivoting on his right leg, and sharply torqueing Todd's still trapped foot at the same time. Todd's body didn't have any choice but to turn with the pressure on his back and the pull of the muscles in his hip. His weight went off his supporting leg and then he was twisting in the air, headed for the mat face first.

He barely got his hands out in front of him enough to slightly cushion the landing as his chest slammed into the mat. Barton's grip on his leg had already loosened and his other leg – the one that had been holding all his weight and was now tangled with his other leg – sharply tweaked. The pain faded just as quickly as it had come even as Todd coughed out a groan.

He sensed Barton hovering just out of reach, waiting to see if Todd would get up.

"Didn't see that one coming." Todd coughed again and pushed himself up to his feet. "Phil teach you that?"

Barton made a face that clearly said  _'please'_  with as much sarcasm as facial expression could manage. Todd chuckled but wasn't surprised. Phil was a great fighter, but he was a boxer. Whatever move Barton had just pulled off, that wasn't boxing. And it also wasn't something anybody else could have pulled off.

"So you came up with that all on your own?"

Barton shrugged. Todd arched an eyebrow.

"Not bad, kid."

Barton shrugged again and motioned for Todd to get his hands up.

"I'm gonna get you this time," the trainer taunted.

Now Barton smirked – mockingly. Todd took it as a challenge.

They silently circled.

Todd found himself wondering if Barton was this quiet all the time. Granted, he usually saw the archer during gen pop training and getting the kid to rub two words together was like beating your head against a brick wall.

But there were moments.

Moments when something broke through the silence. It had happened earlier, when Barton walked into the gym. He'd had a sarcastic comeback flying back at Todd without even taking a breath. Todd had been amused, but also shocked. The kid had clammed back up the moment he realized Phil was leaving, though and had barely uttered a handful of words since.

It wasn't that Todd wasn't used to it, but he'd halfway expected it to be different when they were alone. Without all the other recruits around, he'd figured Barton would feel more at ease. But apparently 'at ease' was only possible when his handler was close at hand.

But that little flash of sarcastic humor brought Todd hope. He'd already known Barton was a smart ass. But his quips with the other recruits were usually darker and more hostile. He'd been _joking_  with Todd earlier, honest to God  _joking_. There was a good-humored nineteen year old hidden behind the mask of bullshit – he was certain of it. He saw it when Barton and Phil thought no one was watching.

And now he really wanted to meet that kid first hand.

He hadn't realized he'd lost track of Barton until there was a fist swinging at his face.

He  _barely_ dodged it in time to avoid a cracked tooth.

"Thought you were gonna get me this time."

Todd blinked. Was that…sarcasm? But not the usual hostile sarcasm he spit at other agents. That was the very joking sarcasm Todd had just been wishing for. What the hell? Was Barton a fucking mind reader too?

Todd couldn't help it, he smiled. And then he quickly forced it into a smirk, so the archer wouldn't get suspicious.

"Your ass is mine, Barton."

He stepped forward, launching into a long and fast series of punches. He backed Barton across the mat, forcing the archer to retreat in order to continue dodging. Finally, he got an opening. Barton leaned left to avoid a jab, but leaned a little too far. He was off balance.

Todd spun into a quick, tight spin kick, aiming for Barton's exposed side.

He was sure he had him.

But then Barton was exploding upward, tucking into a tight ball and flipping backward – clearing Todd's leg and landing out of reach. Todd was left to finish the wasted rotation and glare at Barton's suddenly smirking face.

"This ass? You ain't touchin' this ass."

Todd laughed.

_Holy hell_. He'd just met the real Clint Barton.

* * *

"Is he ready for this?" Nick Fury steepled his hands in front of his face and stared across his desk at Phil – his second in command and most trusted agent. Phil was still reading over the mission file, a small frown turning down the corners of his lips.

For several long, silent moments, Phil didn't answer. Even after he closed the file and stared heavily at some invisible spot on the top of Nick's desk, he didn't reply. Nick waited. This was no small question and he needed Phil's most honest and well-considered reply. If Barton wasn't ready, they needed to decide that now.

Finally Phil blew out a breath and raised his gaze. He met Nick's eye with confidence and without reservation.

"He's ready."

Fury nodded. He really hadn't expected any less.

"Read him in. I want him on a plane to Cairo by lunch."

* * *

End of Chapter 1

Here we go! Are you all ready for an all new adventure! :D This story IS complete, so as usual, look for daily updates.

Drop me a comment to let me know if you're excited about a new story and if you like how we started off! ;)

See you tomorrow! To hold you over, here's a preview of chapter 2:

* * *

_"You may have an issue gaining respect given your age. They probably won't take you seriously at first."_

_Clint felt a wave of cool, dark confidence sweep over him. People had made that mistake when he first started out in the contract world. They'd looked at him and seen nothing but a kid with a bad attitude. They hadn't seen the darkness smoldering beneath the youthful exterior. It had been a mistake – theirs – and it hadn't taken long for them to realize the error of their ways. He'd done what was necessary to make sure they did – to make sure no one ever looked at him like that again._

_He dropped his hand to rest on his bow, tightening his fingers around the familiar weapon and feeling a piece of the old Hawkeye slide back into place._

_"They won't make that mistake for long."_


	2. Masquerading As A Man With A Reason

_Welcome to chapter two! Officially issuing the challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Thank you to all of you that issued congratulations and well wishes for me and my recently expanded family :)_

_Thanks to all who commented on Chapter 1:_ **laral, Isi7140, immertreu, thiswilldrivemecrazy, GoldOwl89** _, and_ **LicoriceStick**

_And special shout out to_ **Isi7140** _for figuring out the song this chapter titles are from already!_

_Special thanks to **Kylen** for all her beta-goodness. Whenever Dan uses words, she is the one behind them :D_

_Thanks also to_ **JRBarton** _and HER beta-goodness. Invaluable part of our team :D love her!_

_So without further ado…chapter two!_

* * *

_Life doesn't get easier or more forgiving, we get stronger and more resilient.  
_ _**Steve Maraboli** _

* * *

"Cairo?"

Phil nodded and slid the file across the table to Clint. The archer caught it with his hand before it could slide off the table and then flipped it open.

"You'll be infiltrating a private mercenary organization known as Ares."

Clint looked up from the file with a quirked eyebrow.

"Ares? As in the Greek god of war?"

Phil nodded. Clint rolled his eyes and looked back to the file.

"Nice to see they went the subtle route."

"You can share your discontent with their moniker when you get there."

Clint granted him a half glare and then flipped the file shut. Phil had no doubt it would be read and memorized before Clint ever left the base.

"Lay it out, Phil."

"Primary target is Damon Ruiz. He's the founder and leader of the entire organization and he's a nasty, ruthless son of a bitch. He's on every intelligence agency's kill list, but he's smart. Until now, no one has found a way to get close enough to get the job done. That's where you come in. You need to get a location on him and take him out. Once you've confirmed the hit and have cleared out of the area, SHIELD will deploy a team to clean house."

Clint nodded thoughtfully, absently rubbing the side of his jaw.

"What's my cover?"

"Sniper."

"I don't speak the local language."

"A non-factor."

Clint nodded, accepting the reply and moving easily to the next point.

"What if they don't need a sniper?"

Phil smirked.

"They do. Our intel says they just lost their primary shooter."

Clint sat back in his seat and looked across the table at Phil, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Lost?"

Phil smiled at the tone. Clint was calling bullshit.

"One of our retrieval teams scooped him up."

Clint's eyebrow arched.

"Convenient."

Phil shrugged.

"What matters is that he's in custody awaiting trial and Ares is down a sniper."

Clint frowned.

"Isn't it going to be kind of suspicious that I just happen to show up with the exact skill set they're looking for?"

Phil shook his head.

"Not when there have been well-placed rumors floating through the back channels for months that SHIELD is closing in on you. You're looking for a way to lay low, blend in as much as someone in your profession can. Ruiz won't be able to pass up a reputation like yours."

Clint gazed across the table, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Rumors?"

"Fury's been laying the groundwork ever since we got a bead on these guys four months ago."

Clint's lips turned down and something in his eyes shifted, darkening.

"And who exactly are these guys going to be recruiting?"

Phil blew out a breath and made sure he held Clint's gaze with his own. He could tell by the hard edge in the archer's gaze that he'd already figured it out for himself.

"They're recruiting Hawkeye."

Everything in Clint's expression tightened and he looked away. He blew out a slow breath and looked back at Phil with a clenched jaw.

"I'm assuming you aren't talking about SHIELD's premiere wet-work guy."

Phil shook his head.

"Hawkeye – the contract assassin. Who went to ground 16 months ago when SHIELD got too close in Vienna. Who's been laying low, taking low-profile contracts to try and stay off the radar. But SHIELD is closing in again. There's been chatter throughout the networks for months."

Clint stared at him, his expression was neutral, but his eyes were dark. He was searching Phil's gaze for something. Confidence maybe – assurance that Phil believed he could do this, that he could become that version of himself again without  _becoming_  that version of himself. If the doubt lingering in the blue-gray gaze was anything to go by, Clint wasn't so sure he could pull it off. Phil knew he could – knew he was stronger now than he had been sixteen months ago. He made sure that confidence showed in his eyes.

Finally Clint sat forward in his chair, resting his palm on the closed file – as if he could absorb all the information through his touch.

"You know what you're asking me to do." It wasn't a question, so Phil didn't answer. He waited as Clint flexed his jaw and then went on. "That version of myself…it's…" Something dark and dangerous passed through the assassin's gaze and the corners of his mouth tightened as he went on. "It's not  _good_. You want me to become that again – the person I've been fighting for sixteen months  _not_  to be anymore."

"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think you could do it."

Clint's hand clenched into a fist where it still rested on top of the file.

"It's not whether or not I can  _do_ it," he snapped sharply.

Phil arched an eyebrow at the tone and watched Clint close his eyes and draw in a calming breath.

"It's whether or not I can pull myself out of it again." His tone was calmer now, more level.

"You can." Phil kept his tone equally level, hoped it bled with the confidence he felt.

Clint met his gaze again, surprise registering in his eyes in the face of Phil's certainty. He held Phil's eyes with his own for a few more silent moments before he sat back again.

"When do we leave?"

Phil felt a fissure of doubt slice through him, but he pushed it away. The feeling had nothing to do with Clint's ability to do his job and everything to do with Phil's own overprotective nature.

"It's not 'we', it's  _you_."

Clint frowned.

"Me?"

"You're flying solo, kid. Your cover goes active the moment you board your flight. They'll likely be watching you as soon as you land. Contact with anything even resembling SHIELD would blow the whole operation."

"A solo op." Clint's tone was even, as if he were mulling over the whole thing in his mind.

"SHIELD has a compound in Cairo. If things go south, extract yourself and get to the safe house detailed in the file. We'll be monitoring it and will make contact from there."

Clint just nodded, accepting those terms without protest, and absently started leafing through the file without actually reading any of it.

Part of Phil wished he would ask about a hot extraction – about what to do if he  _couldn't_  extract himself. But he knew that Clint wouldn't. Operatives like Clint – covert in the most extreme sense of the term – didn't get the luxury of going in with extraction plans. If they were caught, they got disavowed and left to find their own way home because they were almost always mixed up in something that couldn't be tied back to SHIELD.

Phil felt the knot – the one his gut had tied itself into when Fury first pitched this assignment – tighten. He didn't doubt Clint's skills. If prodigies existed in the world of covert operatives, the archer would most assuredly be labeled one. But trouble seemed to follow him, and it was more a matter of 'when' not 'if' it would catch up to him. Phil would feel a hell of a lot better if he could be there – ready to pull him out of it.

He barely fought back a flinch when he heard the file slap closed on the table. He refocused his gaze on Clint to find the archer already watching him. There was an odd look in his eyes – one caught somewhere between confused and surprised, which tended to be his reaction to the reminder that  _yes,_ Phil cared about him – and it left Phil to wonder if his worry had been visible in his expression or if Clint's uncanny perceptiveness had struck again.

The archer opened his mouth only to close it again with narrowing eyes. Phil was almost amused by the wave of frustration that swept through the teen's expression. The urge to speak his mind seemed to physically weigh on him for a moment before he shifted his gaze away and spoke.

"So Fury okay'd taking off the training wheels and letting me go solo?"

Phil felt the corner of his lips tug upward. Clint may have come leaps and bounds from the angry sad kid that Phil had recruited sixteen months ago, but he still couldn't bring himself to voluntarily talk about anything in the realm of emotions. Phil wasn't all that surprised and honestly wasn't confident that it would ever change. He wasn't sure what he would do if it did. Coaxing emotion out of Clint had become something like a hobby.

"It was Fury's idea. He thinks you're ready and I agreed."

Clint nodded slowly.

"Protocol is different for a job like this," Phil went on. "Since we have to assume they'll be watching you as soon as you land, your travel plans are going to be a little less  _conventional_ than you've gotten used to. We've arranged for you to hop a cargo flight to Cairo, won't be comfortable but that was your typical M.O., right?"

Clint nodded again.

"Never flew above the radar unless there was no other choice, Phil." The archer smirked. "That's why you never knew where I was until I'd already done what I was there to do."

Phil found himself smiling. Clint wasn't wrong. The kid's natural ability to evade detection had been the first thing that had caught Phil's attention. You just couldn't teach instincts like that. The archer had been a ghost back then. Getting a solid lead on him had been one of the most challenging undertakings Phil had ever been faced with. The few times he'd actually caught up to him – and they were  _very_ few – the mysterious Hawkeye had  _still_  managed to slip through his fingers…until Vienna.

He'd never admit it to Clint, but Vienna had been nothing but luck. Phil had heard about the contract on Bѐres and had thought it seemed to be Hawkeye's kind of job. High paying and only a country away from the last body the archer had dropped. When he'd staked out Bѐres's house from a few blocks away, safely hidden in a vacant, dark building with anti-reflective binoculars, he'd mostly expected to be disappointed. Then he'd caught movement while scanning the nearby rooftops and low and behold, there was Hawkeye.

Tossing small pieces of something up in the air and catching them in his mouth.

Phil had been distracted then, by the team of men slipping silently into the building and heading toward the very fire escape he figured the archer was planning on using to make his get-away. By the time Phil got to the alley next to the building it was over. Hawkeye was, by some miracle, amidst a trail of bodies.

The rest, as they say, was history.

"I remember," Phil allowed, still smiling, "and that alone is going to make your cover an easy sell."

Clint nodded and blew out a breath.

"When do I leave?"

"As soon as you can get your shit packed."

And that was far too soon as far as Phil was concerned.

* * *

Clint barely looked up when he heard a knock at his bedroom door.

"What?!" He may have snarled that a little more fiercely than necessary, but he'd just play it off as getting into character…or back to character or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing.

There was a slight pause and then Phil's muffled voice came from the other side of the closed door.

" _It's me."_

Clint pushed up from where he was sitting on the floor and shifted his bow against his right side. He pulled the door open and turned away to return to his spot on the floor without waiting for Phil to follow him.

His handler caught the door before it could swing closed again and stepped into his room, watching him as he sat back down amidst the bow maintenance tools he had spread across this floor.

"That your old bow?" Phil asked as he set a tray down on the foot of Clint's bed.

He looked up from his bow to see the tray was laden with various foods from the mess hall. He tossed a glance at the clock on his bedside table. It was nearly half past eleven already. He had wheels up in less than an hour and he still had to get cleared in the infirmary and get his comm unit.

He always lost track of time when he was messing with his bow.

"Yeah," he answered Phil's question and started packing away the tools. He'd have the flight to Cairo to continue any maintenance he needed to do. "I figured taking any SHIELD technology would be like asking for a bullet to the head."

Phil inclined his head in agreement.

"Good call. I was going to suggest leaving your SHIELD bow and quiver behind anyway."

Clint tossed his bow onto the bed next to his packed duffle and reached for a bag of chips on the tray. Doritos – his favorite. He sat on the bed and pulled the bag open, tossing a chip in his mouth and letting his gaze drop back to his bow.

It was really a beautiful weapon. He loved his new bow – collapsible and fucking awesome – courtesy of SHIELD weapons tech. He  _really_  loved his new automated quiver. But there was something to be said about his old recurve bow from his carnival days. Still as sleek and black as the day he stole it out of the prop tent, it fired smoother than any other bow he'd ever had – SHIELD designed or otherwise.

But that could just be because he was biased.

He'd become Hawkeye – every version of him – with that bow in hand.

It had been what made him famous at Carson's – the Amazing Hawkeye. It had been the bow he'd been using when Phil had brought him in and he'd become Hawkeye – SHIELD's top covert operative. And it had been the bow he'd used the entire year he'd been working in the shadows – Hawkeye, the contract assassin.

It was part of him.

Clint found himself wondering if that meant his bow was as tainted as he was. Did it carry the memory of all the lives it had taken? Had a year of being used as a tool for murder washed away the innocence of its carnival days? Or was it just a weapon – cold and inanimate, with no marks to give away its bloody history.

But when he held that bow in his hands, it wasn't Carson's that sprang to his memory. It was dark days and darker nights. It was months filled with blood and money and nothing in his heart but darkness and hatred.

Maybe the bow  _was_  tainted. Tainted just like he was – or maybe  _because_  he was.

Either way, he knew that if he was going to pull this off – if he was going to become that dark, dangerous version of Hawkeye again – he had to do it with that bow in hand. It was more a part of that version of himself than anything else ever could be.

"Clint?"

Clint looked up sharply, startled from his thoughts.

Phil was watching him with crossed arms and a contemplative look.

"You okay?"

Clint forced himself to blink and loosen the hand he'd fisted around his bag of chips.

He was getting ready to voluntarily regress into a version of himself that he hated – a version that had done things he would never forgive himself for. He was going to walk back into the darkness he'd been fighting his way out of for well over a year. All with no guarantee, no real confidence, that he'd be able to pull himself out of it again. And he was doing it all for what? For SHIELD?

No, he was definitely  _not_  okay.

"I'm fine."

Phil tilted his head slightly, his gaze weighing heavily on Clint's. For a long moment neither of them spoke, just stared across the short distance between them with locked gazes. Finally, Phil uncrossed his arms and moved to lean against Clint's dresser. A casual pose, open and sincere. Like Phil.

"If you were to have concerns about what we're asking you to do, that would be normal…given your history."

Clint shifted on the bed, tossing the crumbled bag of chips back onto the tray.

His history.

Phil knew that better than anyone. He'd been the one in the trenches when Clint had first been recruited. He'd been the one fighting right next to him – fighting to save what jagged, shattered pieces of his soul had still been hanging on. He'd been the only one to really face Clint's darkness head on. He'd watched Clint fight it – had been the one to make him believe that he could.

"You're stronger now." Phil went on in a level, confident tone. "And the strength you had back then was no small thing. You won't lose yourself."

Clint felt something in his chest tighten and he kept his gaze on the bag of chips.

"You can't know that." The challenge was out before he could check it, but part of him longed for Phil to reassure him again. To remind of him of that strength that Phil believed he had – the strength that Clint wasn't always so sure existed.

"Sure I can."

He sensed Phil moving closer, coming to crouch at the foot of his bed so that they'd be closer to eye level. Then he waited. Clint knew he was waiting for him to look at him, but it took several moments before he found the courage. When he finally raised his eyes, Phil's gaze was open and warm and full of confidence and reassurance.

"I know you, Clint. I know who you are, better than you do sometimes."

Clint couldn't find a reason to disagree.

"So just trust me when I tell you that you can do this."

Clint frowned skeptically, but didn't argue. Instead, he forced some levity into his tone and quirked his lips sarcastically.

"So isn't sending someone like me into a nest of mercenaries kind of like sending an alcoholic on a booze cruise? You can't tell me the Council isn't shitting kittens over this."

Phil's gaze remained serious for a moment longer before lightening.

"They've approved the assignment with reservation."

"Reservation, huh?" Why was he not surprised?

"Some of them doubt your stability."

Clint huffed out a laugh. He wasn't surprised by that  _at all_. Hell, he doubted his own stability on a regular basis.

"I don't have the same reservation." Phil just couldn't seem to resist reassuring him one more time.

Clint found he couldn't quite fight off the grin that tugged at his lips.

"I  _do_  want you to be careful though. Always,  _always_  remember why you're there. You are going to meet men that you actually  _like_. They won't all be sadistic killers. Some of them are going to be a lot like you. Just remember at the end of the day that they aren't your allies."

Phil didn't need to tag on the 'they're your enemies' for Clint to hear it.

"What makes me any different?" Clint wasn't sure what made him ask, but suddenly he wanted Phil to tell him. He wanted to know what made  _him_  so  _damn_  special. "Hell, I've probably done worse than half the guys that work for Ares right now."

Phil stiffened, eyes narrowing at the suddenness and harshness of the question.

"What the hell makes me any different than them?" Then he just waited, challenging Phil with his silence. He didn't know why this had suddenly become so important to him. But he knew now that he wouldn't be satisfied until Phil gave him an answer.

"Fundamentally…nothing." Phil replied calmly.

That…wasn't what he expected and it had him frowning. But before his thoughts could settle too long, Phil went on.

"It's the details that make the difference. I told you I know you and I do. I got to know you really well when I was tracking you across the world for six months. I got to know who you were as an operative and it's those details…those are what make you so damn different."

Clint held Phil's gaze and waited.

"You painted a picture for the world – a picture of a cold, heartless assassin for hire whose bow went to the man that cut the fattest check. But that's  _all_  it was…a picture. No matter how hard you tried, when it came down to the wire, you weren't as cold hearted as you pretended. That was evident in the details of every kill you made. The efficiency of your kills told me that causing pain wasn't a priority for you, you actually tended to make the deaths as quick and virtually painless as possible."

Clint arched an eyebrow. He'd never psychoanalyzed his methods before.

"Your timing told me that if you could, you'd avoid collateral damage. If you could stop a kid from witnessing his parent's death, you would. Never once in 287 kills did you harm anyone whose name wasn't on a contract. You preferred making your move when the target was alone, no witnesses, no collateral damage."

Phil tilted his head and gave Clint a warm grin.

"Like I said…the details."

Clint quirked his lips doubtfully.

"And that was enough for you – those details. They told you what you needed to know."

Phil nodded firmly.

"It was enough for me, and for Fury. But those men that work for Ruiz – hell, Ruiz himself – they don't care about collateral damage and they sure as hell don't care about causing pain. They don't care who sees or who gets caught in the crossfire. Maybe what they do isn't any different than what you did, but it's  _how_  they do it. It's how Ruiz does it. That's the difference. It's why you aren't and never were anything like them."

Clint nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. Wasn't the saying "the devil is in the details?" He supposed that was fitting when it came to him. Devil was a good way to describe him because he sure as hell wasn't an angel.

"So if their 'how'  _wasn't_  so bad…would we still be stopping them?" Clint knew that even if SHIELD didn't like to admit it, they tended to subscribe to the 'bigger fish' mentality. And he wondered how many shady dealings went on in the world that SHIELD just allowed to happen because they had bigger concerns.

"Of course we would. Ares wreaks chaos and death wherever they go."

Clint tilted his head thoughtfully and pinned Phil with a hard look.

"Would you have stopped  _me_ …if I'd said no?"

Phil looked momentarily stunned before he pressed his lips together and smoothed his expression.

"That doesn't matter. I knew you'd say yes."

Clint frowned.

"That's not an answer."

Phil just held his gaze and pressed his lips together. All it did was confirm what Clint suspected, that his name had been one wrong decision away from a kill order. After all, he'd wreaked his fair share of chaos and death wherever he went too.

"It doesn't matter Clint, you said yes."

Phil didn't give him a chance to argue before he changed the subject.

"You may have an issue gaining respect given your age. They probably won't take you seriously at first."

Clint felt a wave of cool, dark confidence sweep over him. People had made that mistake when he first started out in the contract world. They'd looked at him and seen nothing but a kid with a bad attitude. They hadn't seen the darkness smoldering beneath the youthful exterior. It had been a mistake –  _theirs_  – and it hadn't taken long for them to realize the error of their ways. He'd done what was necessary to make sure they did – to make sure no one ever looked at him like that again.

He dropped his hand to rest on his bow, tightening his fingers around the familiar weapon and feeling a piece of the old Hawkeye slide back into place.

"They won't make that mistake for long."

* * *

Phil glanced at his watch as he leaned his shoulder against the wall outside the infirmary. He'd left Clint to finish packing, but not before securing a promise to meet at the infirmary ten minutes later. A training exercise with the other agents earlier that week had left the archer with a nicely bruised set of ribs on his left side.

The training exercise hadn't started out as a competition – or so Todd insisted – but there were a few agents that couldn't pass up the opportunity to try show up SHIELD's youngest agent.

And Clint never could say no to a challenge.

So what had started out as a group training exercise on the indoor obstacle course, had ended in a fantastic display of physical agility – or so Phil had been told – that had not only left Clint the victor, but had thoroughly humiliated the instigating agents. SHIELD agents didn't tend to take humiliation well and words had been exchanged. By the time Agent Bryan broke up the ensuing brawl, two of the other agents were flirting with unconsciousness, two more were cradling dislocated limbs, the final one couldn't see through the tears his freshly-broken nose had conjured, and Clint…Clint had walked away with a split lip and some bruised ribs.

When Phil had asked Bryan if Clint was going to get written up over the whole fiasco, the lead trainer had just laughed.

" _For what? Kicking ass and taking names? It's what we brought him in for. Besides, they made the first move, he was just defending himself. I'm counting it as a win that at the end of it everyone was still mostly conscious."_

Clint had remained remarkably closed lipped on the matter no matter how much Phil needled him. Every time Phil asked, the archer would get mockingly serious and sincere look on his face and throw a line from the SHIELD training manual at him.

" _I was only 'acting in the best interest of SHIELD's assets.'"_

" _I was just 'exhibiting the type of behavior that most efficiently epitomizes a SHIELD agent's best qualities.'"_

" _Phil, I'm 'tasked with protecting SHIELD's interests from all threats, foreign and domestic.' That's all I was doing."_

Or Phil's personal favorite.

" _Phil, if a SHIELD agent is to effectively protect anyone else's ass, he must first protect his own."_

That last one was usually said with a wicked little smirk and was a self-admitted paraphrasing of one of the SHIELD protocols for emergency situations.

Clever evasions of honest answers aside, whatever had ultimately caused the scuffle didn't seem to have left any lasting mark and Clint had already appeared to have put it all behind him.

As if cued by his thoughts, the archer rounded the corner at the other end of the hall and headed Phil's way. But something about his gait set a chill down Phil's spine.

Clint always moved with a causal kind of grace. Bryan had once likened him to some sort of jungle cat, like a tiger or a panther. He could be moving with his usual, effortless fluidity – completely calm and casual – and a moment later he was all but prowling and practically bleeding predatory aggression.

Outside of work in the field, that predatory prowl usually had an instigating factor, though. Not since Clint's first days with SHIELD had he stalked the halls like a predator looking for its next kill. But it was how he was moving now. Every step bled aggression. The set of his shoulders exuded deadly confidence. As he moved closer, it was like that predatory hostility bled into the air around him with every breath he exhaled.

Phil felt the same chill race down his spine that he'd felt when Clint had talked about not letting the mercenaries make the mistake of underestimating him. The tone he'd spoken in when he'd uttered those words had been nothing but dark, detached confidence. It had been the Hawkeye Phil had met in that alley in Vienna. Just like that gait was the gait of the Hawkeye that had walked to Phil across that tarmac in Debrecen.

He wasn't watching Clint Barton approach him, he was watching Hawkeye. But it wasn't  _his_  Hawkeye, the sarcastic, but loyal and remarkably self-sacrificing, young man who had already set himself apart within SHIELD's ranks.

This was another version – a darker, more violent one. Phil knew it was necessary – it was what they'd  _asked_  of him – but that didn't make seeing the shift any less startling.

Clint slowed to a stop in front of him and met his eyes. Then, all of a sudden, as if he were waking from a trance, all of the old Hawkeye faded away and he was just looking at  _his_ Clint. He was looking at warm blue-gray eyes that could communicate more than any words ever could. Those eyes had become familiar – especially over the last few months as Clint grew more and more comfortable with him. Those eyes – they didn't belong to Hawkeye, not the old version or the new. They belonged to Clint,  _his_ Clint, a Clint that he knew no one else ever got to see.

And when in the last sixteen months had the archer become  _his_? Phil wasn't entirely sure, but it had solidified in his heart and soul sometime around the Andes mission. Clint Barton had become his family, whether the kid liked it and knew it or not. He was Phil's to worry about and Phil's to protect. And Phil would – with every breath he had.

It was a burden, but one that Phil gladly carried.

"Ready?" Phil asked quietly.

Clint cut his eyes over to the infirmary door and sighed. He shifted his gaze back to Phil with a look that clearly stated.

' _If I have to be.'_

Phil grinned and gripped the archer's shoulder, steering him towards the door.

"Kid, you're the one that went and got your ribs bruised. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time."

Clint grinned as they pushed through the door, no doubt pleased with the comparison of the infirmary to a prison.

No sooner had they crossed the threshold than Dr. Dan Wilson's eyes rose from the chart he'd been reading at the intake desk. The doctor's eyebrow arched as he shifted his gaze to rest on Barton.

"Do I even want to know? This is the second time in a week, Barton."

Phil glanced at Clint, watched his eyebrow's draw together in a slight scowl. Dan had been his primary doctor for ten months now, but Clint had yet to really warm up to the man. It wasn't personal, Phil knew, Clint's trust issues – and they were  _big_  issues – kept the archer from easily forming relationships with, well, anyone.

Luckily for all involved, Dan was pretty damn perceptive when he wanted to be and he took Clint's attitude – which was aloof on a good day, hostile on a bad – in stride. He didn't take bullshit from anyone – not even the base's most notorious bull-shitter, Clint Barton. But at the same time, he went to great, sometimes extreme, measures to work at gaining Clint's trust.

A slower, harder process there had never been. Phil knew from experience, and he was grateful Dan went to the effort.

"He's just here to get cleared for active mission status." Phil pulled his hand from Clint's shoulder to check his watch again. "But we need to make it quick, do you have time?"

Dan reached to pinch the bridge of his nose before blowing out a breath and looking at his watch. He glanced at the intake desk nurse and she nodded her head towards one of the curtains.

"I'll meet you at curtain two. You know the drill, Barton, so no bullshit."

With that Dan turned and headed into his office. Phil arched an eyebrow at the short tone, but steered Clint towards curtain two anyway.

"What crawled up his ass?" The archer muttered under his breath.

Phil rolled his eyes and gave Clint a slight shove as they neared the curtain and Phil snapped it closed around them.

"Knowing you, it's something  _you_  did."

The look of wide-eyed, sincere innocence Clint shot him – which was only as sincere as the humor he could see in Barton's eyes – nearly had Phil laughing out loud.

* * *

Dan took a deep, calming breath before he reached for the curtain that hid Barton and Phil.

Breathing usually helped when it came to Barton. Usually. Right now, though, after three nights in a row of infirmary emergencies and the still-bitching recruits from Barton's little escapade on the obstacle course, Dan didn't know if it would be enough.

He wanted sleep,  _not_ ten rounds with Barton.

He took another breath, pulled the edge of the curtain back and stepped into the small room, letting the curtain fall closed behind him. Barton was leaning back against the bed – of  _course_  he wasn't sitting on it like he was supposed to be – but at least he'd already taken his shirt off. Both he and Phil were currently studying the colorful purples, blues and blacks that had blossomed on Clint's left side.

"On the bed, Barton. Thought you wanted to make this quick?"

Phil shot him an odd look and Barton scowled slightly, but did as he was asked.

Dan stepped closer, tossed Barton's chart on the edge of the bed and motioned the archer to lift his left arm. Barton obliged without a word and watched with a scarily detached kind of interest as Dan felt along the bruising, making sure the ribs were all still as they should be. He thought he felt Barton twitch when he hit a particularly dark spot, but when he raised his eyes to the kid's face, there was no sign of pain.

Figured – the kid wasn't going to just make this  _easy_  for once.

"How's the pain?"

Dan let Barton's arm fall back to his side and pulled his stethoscope from around his neck, hooking it into his ears and pressing the round metal against Barton's back. When the archer didn't respond to his question, Dan shot him a look.

"No pain at all, huh? Guess you're just Superman, aren't you?"

Phil's eyebrow arched from where he stood with crossed arms at Clint's other side. Dan didn't miss the quelling look the handler sent the archer's way and forced himself to take a breath. Barton had been mostly cooperative this go-around and antagonizing him was the quickest way to bring that to an end. And if he was being honest, while Barton was technically the source of his most recent headache, the kid wasn't really the cause.

"Deep breath." Dan forced his tone to be even and calm.

For the next few moments he listened to Barton's breathing, making sure his lungs sounded clear and that no complications had arisen since he'd originally checked him over a few days ago.

"Everything sounds clear and even." Dan hooked the stethoscope back around his neck. "Have you done anything in the past few days to aggravate the bruising? You had some tender spots that weren't so tender before."

He looked at Barton as he asked the question, making sure to hold the steely, blue-gray gaze firmly with his own. Couldn't give an inch, not with this kid.

Without hesitation the archer shook his head once.

Why didn't he believe that?

He shifted his gaze to Phil and arched an eyebrow.

"Phil?"

The handler held Dan's gaze steadily and didn't look at Barton as he responded.

"We've been sparring as usual and he had a hard landing off a rooftop at the upstate training compound yesterday."

The look Barton shot Phil may have well have been made of fire, but even it didn't match the one Dan leveled at the archer. Hadn't he told the kid no bullshit?

"Why am I not surprised?" Barton's gaze snapped back around to his at the sharp tone. "You're going to bullshit with me right now? Truth, Barton,  _now_. Or else I'm holding you for a second set of x-rays and the mission gets scratched." Protest rose in Barton's eyes and Dan smirked. "And  _yes_ , I  _do_  have that power, so stop fucking around."

He saw the moment Barton's patience ended.

"It's  _bruised ribs_. I've done a hell of a lot more with a hell of a lot worse. I'm not gonna bitch about a hard landing when it doesn't fucking  _matter_."

Dan opened his mouth to snap off a reply, but caught himself. Hadn't he just decided that aggravating Barton was counter-productive? And what had Phil been telling him lately? That Barton needed almost constant reminding his life was different now…

"Just because you've dealt with worse, Barton, doesn't mean you have to deal with it now." Dan carefully reached to feel along Barton's injured ribs one more time, to wordlessly communicate that at the end of the day Barton's well-being _mattered_ to him. He made sure to keep his tone as casual – as non-caustic – as possible. "Now, do I need to send you up for x-rays, just to be on the safe side?"

He felt the slow breath Barton let out where he still had his fingers pressed to the archer's ribs.

"No." The word was spoken quietly and sincerely and Dan lifted his gaze to meet Barton's again. "I'm good," the kid promised in the same calm tone.

Dan held his eyes for a moment longer, searching for any signs of deception, but knowing at the same time that even if Barton was lying, he wouldn't know it. Finally he nodded.

"Okay." Dan allowed, stepping back and picking up Barton's chart.

He scribbled his notes down and stuffed his pen back into the pocket of his lab coat only to grin when his hand crinkled against plastic.

"Since you've been such a good little patient today," Dan smirked as he withdrew the lollipop in his pocket and held it out to Barton, "you've earned a prize."

Barton, who was halfway back into his t-shirt, looked at the lollipop, then back at Dan, then back at the lollipop. His face morphed, the new expression colorfully telling Dan what Barton believed he could go do with that lollipop, and the archer pushed past him to shove the curtain aside.

Dan chuckled to himself and dropped the lollipop back into his pocket as he and Phil watched Barton stalk his way out of the infirmary.

"Just when I think he's warming up to me." Dan shook his head in amusement. "I think I'd keel over in shock if he  _did_ take the thing."

Phil tilted his head slightly in agreement.

"Don't take it personally. It took four months before he let me give him a Gatorade, remember."

Dan nodded.

"Oh, I remember. And I'm calling it a win that he's not looking to you every time I make the slightest movement during these little check-ups anymore. My nurses and I thank you for that much progress."

Phil smiled fondly.

"He's coming around. Before you know it, he won't even need me around. Then you'll be  _wishing_  I was here to get him to shut up."

Dan snorted. Barton – needing to shut up? He didn't believe it. Getting the kid to string two words together was nothing short of a miracle.

"I'll believe that when I see it." He took one last look at Clint's chart then closed it and slapped Phil's chest with it. "He's good to go, just keep him from trying to leap any tall buildings in a single bound and he'll be fine."

Phil nodded sharply, a sudden tenseness in his shoulders.

"What?"

"He's going solo on this one. I'm not even going to be in country."

Dan raised his eyebrows.

"And you're just  _okay_  with that?"

Phil rolled his neck, which didn't seem to do anything to ease the tension settled there now.

"He'll be fine. Besides – there isn't much choice in the matter. His cover is too deep to risk any contact outside of his transmitter once he lands, so I'd just be sitting on my hands. If things go south, the Cairo base has a team on call."

Dan nodded slowly. That sounded like bullshit – like Phil was trying to convince  _himself_  that Barton would be fine on his own – but Dan wasn't going to call him on it.

"Do me a favor, then, and tell him I'm over the whole dramatic injury thing."

Phil's mouth shifted into a weak attempt at a grin. Yeah, Phil's calm, relaxed exterior was  _bullshit_.

"I'll be sure to pass that along." The agent glanced at his watch. "I need to get going, make sure he doesn't give the tech guys too much grief about his transmitter."

Dan nodded and walked with him towards the door.

"And Dan?"

He arched his eyebrows to show he was listening.

"Get some sleep."

Dan blinked in surprise. Was his exhaustion that obvious?

"You took a remarkably complaint Clint and had him snarling and spitting in record time."

Dan raised an eyebrow.

"If  _that's_  remarkably compliant, I'd hate–"

"I said complaint  _Clint,_  not just compliant. There's a difference." Phil's forehead creased. "And I've never seen you that short with him. Ever."

Dan sighed. He should've known Phil wouldn't let his short temper go without comment – especially not when it came to Barton.

"Yeah, well, the morning after that shit on the obstacle course, I had every last one of those agents Barton took down in here wanting to file an 'official medical complaint.'" Dan air quoted the words, and got the expected eye roll from Phil. "Bryan must have already told them where to shove a standard complaint and it took ever last bit of my patience to remind them that they started the whole thing, and Barton could and likely would respond in kind. They shut down pretty quick after that, but I've gotten all of ten hours of sleep since then. Hell, I've been so busy, I'm drinking other people's coffee. Sparring with Barton wasn't on my to-do list for the day."

Dan huffed out a breath and then met Phil's eyes, letting him see the regret in his gaze. He really hadn't meant to cause problems.

"I'm sorry. Really."

The look of quiet amusement – and forgiveness – in Phil's eyes broke up the moment.

"Sleep, Dan, get some sleep."

Dan sighed and deflated, waving Phil away.

"Yeah, it's on my to-do list."

* * *

"I swear to God, you come near me with that and you'll need it surgically removed from where I put it." Clint watched the two techs on duty exchange nervous looks before they both looked at the small transmitter resting on the table and then back at Clint.

"Agent Barton, you need a covert transmitter."

Clint narrowed his eyes. Why did techs always talk to him like he was an idiot? Maybe he didn't speak technobabble, but he wasn't stupid.

"Yeah, so give me one – just not  _that_  one." He jutted his chin towards the innocent-looking transmitter on the table. But Clint knew the little piece of hardware was anything but innocent. He remembered  _all too well_  how his last experience with one of those turned out.

Goddamned molar implants.

"But it's the only transmitter we have that won't turn up on a visual scan."

Clint scowled.

"You're telling me that in  _all_  of this tech crap you've got here…a  _molar_  implant is the  _only_  covert transmitter you've got."

The techs exchanged slightly superior looks, like Clint just didn't  _get_ something. He almost went over the table at them.

"Why isn't that implanted?"

All three of them looked to the door as Phil strode through it. Clint felt both techs' eyes shoot to him and all that was missing was one of them jumping up and down, pointing, and yelling 'it's his fault!'

"A molar implant, Phil? No way. Tell them to figure something else out." Clint motioned a hand at the techs. "They're techs…tell them to  _tech_."

"A molar implant is the only transmitter that can't be seen when someone looks you over."

He could practically hear the techs chorusing 'I told you so!'

"Yeah, that's what you all said  _last_  time and now I'm down a molar."

"It's the only option, Clint. Besides, they've made modifications."

Clint turned his skeptical gaze to the techs, who both nodded enthusiastically.

"Last time, they picked up the signal when they scanned you…that won't happen this time. We've modified it so the frequency should be undetectable and untraceable." The mousier-looking of the two told him quickly.

Clint arched an eyebrow and gave them both a hard look.

" _Should_  be?"

" _WILL_  be." They shared another look and then looked back at Clint with wide eyes. "Plus we programmed it to route through the Cairo base's long range communications automatically. That way you'll be able to talk directly to Agent Coulson even though he'll be here and you'll be there."

Clint lifted his chin a little and glanced at Phil. Being able to talk directly with Phil was a perk he hadn't been expecting.

His handler gave him a nod and looked pointedly at the transmitter.

"Fine," Clint moved to the chair next to the table. "But if I lose another molar, I'm coming directly to you two."

He took immense pleasure in the twin gulps and sudden looks of fear on their faces.

* * *

Clint laid back on the floor of the cargo plane, using his pack as a pillow and keeping one hand resting on his bow at his side. Phil had seen him off at the airport– subtly, of course. He'd felt the man's eyes on him from the moment he parked his motorcycle until he'd paid the pilot and disappeared into the bowels of the large plane.

Now he was truly on his own. In twelve hours, he'd be literally walking into a lion's den.

But instead of fear or even trepidation, all he felt was calm.

He'd walked into lion's dens before – he'd tangled with the lions themselves and he was still here. This was his element, breathing danger, going toe-to-toe with people equally as deadly as he was. He'd gained a reputation  _very_  quickly in the world of contract assassins because he wasn't afraid – not even when he should be. He was Hawkeye.

He remembered the first time he'd identified himself by his old stage name instead of his given name. The first time he'd fully embraced what he could become. He'd been seventeen years old in a room full of dangerous, deadly men and he'd made  _them_  fear  _him_.

* * *

_Tokyo – June 2002_

* * *

_Clint blew out a breath through his nose and flicked his head to displace the hair that kept dripping water into his eyes. He eyed his target – a metal washer nailed to the wall at the other end of the long alley._

" _Junbi?_ _ **(ready?)**_ _" Kaito – a tall skinny man he'd met his second day in the country – asked._

_Clint nodded._

" _San…ni…ichi!_ _ **(three, two, one)**_ _"_

_Clint had the arrow clear of his quiver before the last number of the countdown was even fully clear of Kaito's lips. The arrow was nocked and flying a half a breath later._

_The gathered crowd all sharply drew in a breath and held it as the arrow sliced through the rain. For a moment the falling of the rain was the only sound in the alley._

_Then the arrow slammed home, dead center in the washer._

_Half the crowd erupted in cheers and the other half in groans. Immediately money started changing hands, a large portion of it going to Kaito._

_Clint walked to retrieve his arrow, checking it over carefully as he walked back to Kaito. He moved slowly, waiting for the crowd to disperse as Kaito told them that was the last bet for the night. By the time he'd made it back to his associate's side, Kaito was counting out his share._

" _Arigatou." Clint stuffed the wad of bills into his front pocket._

" _Tomorrow night?" Kaito asked as he stepped back. Clint was grateful the man switched to English because they'd covered the expanse of the Japanese he'd learned in the_ _week and a half he'd been here already._

_He nodded and waited until Kaito turned the corner down the street before heading in the direction of the room he was staying in._

_Or squatting in. However you wanted to classify it._

_He was wiping water off his face, rounding the last corner, when his neck tingled. It was all the warning he had before a force slammed into his back. Even as he stumbled forward, he drew an arrow. He had it nocked even as he turned, but never got a chance to fire. The stun gun to the back of his neck was set high enough to turn his lights out before he even had a chance to register the pain._

* * *

_He woke suddenly and to darkness. It took him a moment to realize it was only dark because there was something over his head, something thick and dark – like a bag. He was also sitting, two firm hands latched onto each shoulder to keep him upright. Some instinct told him not to struggle, so instead he focused on the only sense that was of any use at the moment – his hearing._

_There were several voices, all speaking in rapid Japanese. He hadn't been in the country long enough to even hope to follow along, so he did the only thing he could. Swallow whatever fear was trying to creep up – because, honestly, if they were going to kill him, he'd already be dead – and try and bullshit his way out of this._

_Whatever_ _**this** _ _was._

_He relaxed back against the chair and waited._

_Almost immediately, all conversation stopped. Then someone snapped their fingers and the bag was yanked off his head without warning. The room was bright –_ _**way** _ _brighter than he was ready for – and it left him wincing and squinting. When his eyes adjusted he found himself sitting face to face with a very round man with slicked back black hair and almost equally black eyes._

_The eyes stared at him and he stared right back, willing away any evidence of anything but confidence._

" _Forgive the dramatics, my friend, but my business requires a certain…discretion."_

" _Where I come from, friends don't knock friends out with stun guns and put bags over their heads…so I don't think 'friends' is how I'd classify us."_

_Clint wondered briefly who had taken over his mouth and decided to shoot it off._

_The man's black eyes widened in astonishment and the sharp cuff to the back of Clint's head really wasn't all that surprising. Just as quickly, a level of appreciation rose in the man's eyes._

" _I am told you are even quicker with your weapon than appear to be with your mouth."_

" _Why don't you give it back and I'll let you decide for yourself." Clint felt confidence rising in him. He'd already shot his mouth off and they hadn't killed him – asking about his bow…that meant they needed him for something. He might be able to get out of this after all._

_The man laughed._

" _I like you…what is your name?"_

_Clint clenched his jaw and glanced around. No way was he putting his real name out there with a guy that grabbed people out of alleys._

" _Only my friends know my name."_

_The man smirked._

" _Anonymity is something I can respect…but if we are to do business, I must call you something."_

" _Seems the reverse is true too, buddy." Clint resisted the urge to shiver as a drip of water ran down his spine. For the first time he realized the room was downright cold – and he was still soaking wet. He really hoped he looked less like a drowned puppy than he felt._

" _I am Hayato – perhaps you've heard of me."_

_Clint clenched his jaw and felt his eyes widen slightly. Heard of him? Hell yes he'd heard of him. One of the biggest gangster types in the city. This just kept getting better and better. He forced his tone to be level and to exude the confidence he felt rapidly dwindling._

" _I may not have been in town long, but it's been long enough."_

_Hayato nodded._

" _That will make this easier."_

_Clint swallowed and clawed at his confidence, trying to pull it back._

" _And what is 'this'?"_

" _A business opportunity."_

_Clint arched an eyebrow._

" _I can make you a very rich man, my friend."_

_Money – that was something that was universal in everybody's language. And Clint had nothing but the wad of bills he'd won tonight and a small stash he'd been saving back at his 'apartment.' He could stand to make some real money…even if it was just enough to get him out of this city and on to the next._

_Besides, knowing a man like Hayato had to have its advantages._

_He wasn't a kid anymore – he_ _**couldn't** _ _be. Not in a world like this, not if he wanted to survive. It was time to grow up and be something more._

" _Like I said – we aren't friends." He glanced to his left, at his bow and quiver currently being held by none other than Kaito. He returned his gaze to Hayato. "Give me back my bow, and we'll talk."_

_He had to shift the balance here. He couldn't make a deal with Hayato while he was under the proverbial gun like this. It was asking to be under Hayato's thumb forever – he'd never break free. He had to turn the tables._

_Hayato gazed at him curiously and then nodded at Kaito and the skinny man shuffled forward. He kept his gaze down and didn't look at Clint as he held out the bow and quiver. Clint shrugged off the hands on his shoulders and reached for his weapons._

_But instead of grabbing the quiver itself, he just grabbed a handful of arrows and let the quiver fall. He stuffed the arrows between his teeth even as he brought his bow up. Less than fifteen seconds later, he'd put three of them down with an arrow to the thigh. He disarmed the two that managed to get their guns up – though one of them managed to get a shot off and crease his shoulder – and put them on the ground in the same manner._

_The threat neutralized, Clint casually resumed his seat – meeting Hayato's eyes dead on. The man looked startled, but impressed._

" _ **Now**_ _we can talk." Clint tilted his head to the side. "You can call me Hawkeye."_

* * *

Clint blinked, flinching awake as the plane jerked around him. He looked around, hearing the sounds of wheels on the tarmac. He didn't remember falling asleep. But even though he knew it had to have been hours ago, he didn't feel rested.

He sat up, strapping his quiver onto his back and hooking his pack over his shoulder. He kept his bow in his hand as he moved towards the bay door that would be lowering as soon as they stopped. His deal with the pilot meant that he needed to be long gone before anybody ever showed up to unload the cargo.

It was pretty easy. He slid out before the bay door was even fully opened and was gone before the pilot even got out of the cockpit. Getting out of the airport was even easier. Not speaking Egyptian Arabic made moving through the city a little harder, given he had to avoid the tourist-heavy areas – which also happened to be the only places where English was commonly spoken. But he'd made a healthy living not so long ago by operating effectively in new cities where he rarely already knew the language.

So in the end he not only had a name of a hotel that wouldn't ask any questions, but he also had the names of some good local places to eat, the names of some promising local contacts, a list of places to avoid if he wanted to keep out of trouble, and a new list of Egyptian-Arabic vocabulary words.

Since staying under the radar was supposed to be his motive here, he kept his head down and headed for the hotel. He was hoping to get some food, grab some more shut eye and get his head into place before things got started. But when the back of his neck started tingling, he knew it wasn't to be.

He was being watched,  _already_. There were a couple guys waiting for him around the corner he was headed towards. More than likely the welcome party had arrived.

But he wouldn't be the Hawkeye they were expecting if he just went quietly. Besides, going quietly just wasn't in his DNA.

He rounded the corner, already spinning into a high kick. His boot cracked into a jaw even as he swung his bow around and snapped it into the side of the second man's head. He turned, bringing his hand, still fisted around his bow, up to slam into the nose of the man behind him. A crackle of electricity alerted him too late to movement over his shoulder.

He tried to dodge down and to the right, but he wasn't fast enough. The two darts hit him high in the back of his shoulder. Then it was like every muscle in his body contracted and locked up. He hit his knees hard and couldn't do anything but grunt in annoyance as his fell to his side with all the grace of a bag of bricks. Finally the current cut off, but before he could manage to do more than force himself to blink, a black bag was dropping over his head, someone was prying his bow out of his hand and rope was tightening around his wrists.

He cursed as clearly as he could, hoping it sounded as snarling and pissed off as he intended.

Another fucking bag.

_Perfect._

* * *

End of Chapter 2

I particularly enjoyed the look back at how Clint got into the contract business. What was your favorite part of this chapter? Scroll on down to that little review box and let me know :)

As a reward for reviewing, here's a preview of Chapter 3:

* * *

_Clint cocked his head and kept his voice low._

_"Last guy that called me 'friend' out of turn ended up regretting it."_

_Cohen sobered and his eyes took on an odd glint – something close to satisfaction._

_"Then shall we dispense with the bullshit pleasantries?"_

_"I've never been one for small talk anyway." Clint shrugged. "So if this isn't kidnapping, what is it?"_

_"Recruitment."_


	3. My Charade Is The Event Of The Season

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Shout out to those who have guessed correctly:_ **clint_you_dummy** _and_ **bladeandroses** **  
**

 _Thanks to all who commented on Chapter_  2:  **clint_you_dummy, Isi7140, immertreu, GoldOwl89** _and_ **bladeandroses** ** _  
_**

 _Special thanks to_ **Kylen** _for beta-ing this :D and for just generally being awesome.l_

 _Thanks also to_ **JRBarton** _for acting as a second beta!_

_So time to get going – here comes Chapter 3!_

* * *

_My attitude is that if you push me towards something that you think is a weakness, then I will turn that perceived weakness into a strength._ _  
__**Michael Jordan** _

* * *

Clint rolled his neck, trying to loosen the muscles that were trying their best to lock up on him. Tasers were a bitch – there was just no getting around that. And sitting cross-legged with his hands tied behind his back and a bag over his head on the rock-hard floor of a van that was moving over what had to be the  _worst_ -kept streets in the world was not helping matters.

He kept himself busy by tracking their progress – well, tracking it as best he could since he had no way to gauge what speed they were going. But he was able to keep a running list of what turns they made and the amount of time between them. So maybe he wouldn't be able to place the base on a map, but he could at least find his way back to the city if he really needed to…hopefully.

Finally the van slowed. There was a muffled, rapid exchange between the driver and someone outside the van and then Clint heard rustling that sounded like a chain link fence getting moved. Then they were moving again. They only drove for a few moments before they stopped again and the van shut off.

Clint tensed and shifted the ropes – the ones he'd freed his wrists from about fifteen seconds into the drive – so that they still appeared to be holding him captive.

Then the back doors to the van swung open and everybody started moving. Hands pulled at his biceps, jerking him to his feet. He remembered they were in a van just in time to avoid slamming the top of his head into the roof as they pulled him up. Then he was pushed towards the doors and roughly shoved out. He had years of balance training at Carson's to thank for his landing, which he could tell was far more graceful than his escorts had been hoping for. He supposed most men that got shoved out of a van with a bag on their head and their hands bound ended up sprawled in the dirt. That he'd not only managed to land on his feet, but also to right his balance with nothing but a quick step, set the guys behind him into a brief fit of hushed whispers.

Movement in front of him had Clint cocking his head, straining his ears to get a read on the developing situation.

"I hope you don't mind the theatrics, but I'm sure that you of all people understand the need for discretion in this line of work."

A male, French by the sound of his accent, spoke from directly in front of him. A moment later the bag was jerked off his head and Clint was left squinting into the early morning sun. He blinked to help his eyes adjust and then turned his focus to the man standing before him.

He recognized him immediately from the file. If the harshly angled cheekbones, the so-pale-they-were-almost-white blue eyes, the black hair and hooked nose weren't enough to identify him, the deep red scar that crossed diagonally across his forehead and split the skin between his eyes definitely was.

Vincent Cohen, right hand man to Damon Ruiz.

Clint held the man's gaze and arched a curious eyebrow. He wasn't supposed to know about Ares – definitely wasn't supposed to know what players were involved. So he rotated his shoulders, and hoped his annoyance with their recruiting methods showed in his own eyes.

"And what line of work is that?" He hardened his gaze. "Kidnapping?"

Cohen chuckled deeply and waved his hand as if Clint were being ridiculous.

"No, no, my friend, you misunderstand."

Clint cocked his head and kept his voice low.

"Last guy that called me 'friend' out of turn ended up regretting it."

Cohen sobered and his eyes took on an odd glint – something close to satisfaction.

"Then shall we dispense with the bullshit pleasantries?"

"I've never been one for small talk anyway." Clint shrugged. "So if this isn't kidnapping, what is it?"

"Recruitment."

"For?"

Cohen smirked proudly.

"Ares – perhaps you've heard of us."

Clint blinked blankly.

"Can't say that I have – but then again I don't make it a habit of concerning myself with private military groups."

Now Cohen looked intrigued.

"What makes you think we're private military?"

Clint arched a patronizing eyebrow.

"You're based about forty minutes outside the city, your compound is gated with patrolling canine units for security. You're loosely set up like a military outpost and if I had to guess, that's the barracks there," Clint nodded his head towards a cluster of buildings over his left shoulder. "Operational command is probably there," he tilted his chin towards a building in the center of the compound. "As for the mess and rec area, well I haven't seen much yet, but I'd put the mess hall there," he tilted his head again, "and the rec area there…indoor and outdoor facilities, right? So either you're private military, mercenaries or whatever you want to call it, or you're an overzealous group of boy scouts."

Shocked whispers rose from the small group of men behind him and impressed satisfaction rose in Cohen's eyes.

"Well, we are not boy scouts…and it seems your reputation is not as ill-founded as some of my associates believed."

Clint smirked.

"If fundamental observational skills is all it takes to blow up your skirt, then you're wasting my time. I don't deal in Sherlock Holmes shit."

Cohen's responding smile was dark and chilling.

"I assure you, neither do we. What we do, you'll find, differs very little from your current profession. We take contracts to perform a service and we get paid  _very_  well for our trouble."

Clint allowed a smirk to turn up the corner of his mouth.

"Now you're speaking the universal language."

Cohen smirked in return.

"Our sources tell us that you are under some fairly extreme heat – SHIELD, if I'm not mistaken."

Clint scowled and let that be answer enough.

"You need a way to regain your anonymity – we need an operative with your skill set."

Clint tilted his head like he was thinking it over.

"What's the payout?"

Because for Hawkeye – the Hawkeye the criminal world knew – money was the bottom line.

"An equal share of the contract fee – split between myself, your team, and our leader."

Clint held Cohen's gaze with his own, called on all his own skills for perception to get a clear read on the man. He couldn't agree too quickly, that wouldn't fit the reputation he'd built as a lone wolf.

"And when the heat from SHIELD dies down?"

"You'll be free to walk away."

Clint hesitated a little longer.

"I'm in…with one condition."

Cohen waved him on.

"Give me back my fucking bow and don't ever try and take it from me again."

The heat and fury in his tone wasn't manufactured. Criminal Hawkeye, SHIELD Hawkeye, or Carson's Hawkeye, it didn't matter – his bow was off limits.

He felt all the men behind him tense and even Cohen looked momentarily stunned before he shook it off and nodded once.

"And for the record? This shanghai bullshit is shitty recruitment technique."

Cohen smiled now.

"Duly noted. Carter – cut him loose."

'Carter' moved up on Clint's left, but Clint just smirked at him and held out the rope he'd been 'bound' with.

"Learn to tie better knots."

Cohen chuckled deeply and moved to Clint's side.

"I'll show you around. Russo, give the man back his weapons."

A vicious-looking, hulking man tossed Clint back his bow and then his quiver and finally the knife he usually kept strapped to his back. They hadn't found the one in his boot, but he wasn't going to point that out.

Cohen clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him away from the group.

"Welcome to Ares. My name is Cohen."

Cohen already knew who he was – at least who Hawkeye was. Clint wasn't sure why he was looking at him now like he was waiting for an introduction. Maybe it was a test. To Clint, it felt more like a defining moment. The moment when Clint Barton well and truly faded to the background and something else took over. Something darker, something that would fit in at a place like this more than Clint liked to admit.

"Hawkeye."

* * *

Clint eyed the two Rottweilers being restrained by thick chain leashes as they patrolled the perimeter of the compound with their human counterparts – who, for all intents and purposes, looked just as ferocious as the dogs themselves. Sneaking out past them, if it became necessary, was going to be a trick.

Cohen spoke next to him, drawing his attention back.

"Since you already deduced our basic layout, I'll just give you a rundown of our operation and show you to your bunk."

Clint nodded and shifted his grip on his bow. The feeling of being completely surrounded by enemies wasn't a good one. The men of Ares may not realize they were his enemy, but Clint sure as hell did. And the only thing keeping him centered and focused right now was his bow in his hand. The weapon was an extension of his soul; and, with it by his side, he knew that if it came to a fight, these enemies, as numerous as they were, would have a hard time putting him down.

"We operate in six-man teams. What team gets assigned the contract depends on what skill sets are needed. If the op requires more than six bodies, we assign multiple teams."

Clint nodded to show he understood.

"Your team is designated as the Alpha Unit. They call themselves the Alphas. They're unique because they're the only team in the entire organization with a designated sniper."

Clint arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

"All these bodies and I'm the only distance shooter you have?"

"We have plenty of men that can snap off a sniper round if the situation calls for it – but none of them are here because of that skill. Your team is highly specialized and reserved for the most high-caliber operations. We don't get contracts that require a sniper all the time, but when we do, they're usually high paying and extremely covert."

Clint nodded and asked the next question on his mind.

"Why me?"

"Your reputation, for one."

Clint arched his eyebrow curiously. What  _did_  the rest of the criminal world have to say about him?

"Rumor is you've never taken a shot that hasn't hit its mark."

Clint tilted his head in acquiescence and didn't refute the claim.

"Besides that, though, when our leader heard you might be in need of a place to lay low, he insisted I seek you out. Of course, you're harder to find than I'd hoped. That you happened to show up in Cairo without me having to bring you here, was just a stroke of good fortune."

More like SHIELD counted on Ares not being able to resist coming for him if he showed his face in their general area. Cairo had been a calculated decision. But he had no problem letting Cohen think it had been luck.

"Who's this leader you keep mentioning?"

"We call him Ruiz. He's out of country right now on an op, but he'll be glad to hear you've joined our ranks."

Ruiz wasn't here. That meant what he'd been hoping could be a short-term op, had just gained the potential to be long term.

"All teams bunk together, eat together, and train together. Most bunkhouses serve two teams, but the Alpha Unit, well…let's just say they don't play well with others. So they bunk in building six on their own."

Sounded like Clint would fit right in.

Cohen motioned ahead of them to a long building directly in front of them. A black '6' was painted on the closed door.

Clint tightened his grip on his bow and followed Cohen to the door.

"The pack you had when they brought you in will be dropped off for you within the hour, after its contents have been cleared."

Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the extreme security measures and nodded. He was about to reach for the door handle when Cohen's hand wrapped around his bicep.

"One more thing before you go in."

Clint arched an eyebrow impatiently and watched Cohen withdraw a black device from his pocket. A frequency detector. His tongue instinctively drifted over his molar, but otherwise he kept his expression blank.

"For security purposes – you understand."

Clint rolled his eyes as if this were a source of great annoyance and extended his arms out from his sides. Cohen ran the device over the length of his arms, up each leg and across his torso and back. Finally he arched it over his head.

Nothing. Not even a blip.

Looked like the techs got it right this time.

"Shall we?"

Cohen led the way through the door.

Five men were lounging in various places around the long bunk room.

A tall man with buzzed red hair, hulking muscles, pale skin, and blue eyes was doing chin ups on the door frame to what looked like a bathroom area.

A blonde man of average height with a nasty-looking scar on his neck had a hand gun disassembled on the bed in front of him and seemed to be methodically cleaning each piece.

A younger man, maybe late twenties, with military short brown hair, tan skin and sharp green eyes was handling what Clint was  _pretty sure_  might be a block of C-4. There were no detonators or blasting caps in sight, though, so Clint tried not to let it bother him.

Another man with brown hair, though his was a little longer, was sitting on the floor with tech equipment spread out around him. Clint couldn't see his eyes because he was the only one that didn't look up when they walked in.

Finally there was a guy twirling a wicked-looking combat knife around in his hands like it was nothing but a butter knife. Clint felt a similar familiarity with a knife in his hands – he'd learned to throw those long before he'd learned to shoot a bow. The man's hair was jet black and long, pulled back in a low ponytail. His eyes were as black as his hair and seemed to penetrate right through Clint's chest. He had a cigar hanging loosely between his lips.

"Alphas – this is your new shooter. Show him the ropes."

Without further introduction, Cohen turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Almost immediately, the muscle-bound ginger dropped from where he had his hands clenched around the door frame to the bathroom.

"What's this? A daycare now?" Irish – definitely Irish. The man all but stalked towards Clint, the wooden floorboards creaking under his weight. Clint was in the habit of always being in a workable fighting stance when he entered a room with unknown threats. And while it may seem to the ox moving towards him that his posture was casual and his defenses were down, Clint was confident he'd be able to defend himself if needed.

He had to lift his chin to hold the man's gaze as he closed in, and he made sure his eyes reflected nothing but cool confidence.

"I could break you in half with one hand!" the giant looked back at the man who had been cleaning his gun, who just stared calmly. "I wasn't a fan of Aussie, but at least he wasn't still sucking his mama's tits!" The man swung his focus back to Clint and clenched his fist.

That was all the warning Clint needed.

He side stepped to casually dodge the beefy fist headed towards his face and simultaneously snapped the tip of his bow hard into the man's thigh.

Roar would be a good word to describe the red-head's reaction. He swung his fist against, this time in a back-hand motion, probably hoping to take Clint's head off.

Clint ducked and stepped forward, throwing every ounce of his weight into a close-fisted jab into the man's lower ribs. The attacker was forced to double whether he wanted to or not and as the motion brought his head down to Clint's level, he snapped his elbow hard into the man's temple. The force of the blow sent the other man stumbling a step to the side. Clint pursued him and jumped, torqueing his body into an aerial spin kick that brought the hard toe of his boot right into the same temple he'd just abused with his elbow.

The giant dropped like a brick right there in the middle of the floor.

Clint stepped back and scanned the other four faces – wary of a follow-up attack.

The man with the gun – his expression was blank but his eyes were lit up with curiosity.

The ponytail was glaring like Clint was going to be his next meal.

The tech guy was wide eyed and slightly shocked.

And the man with the explosive – he was grinning ear to ear.

* * *

Apparently he'd missed breakfast, which meant he got to go to his first training session with his team on an empty stomach.

It didn't do wonders for his attitude – Clint could readily admit that.

That he wasn't typically prone to what one would call a 'genial' personality in the first place, just made it worse. But he was playing the part of a dark, broody Hawkeye, so really, it had the potential to work in his favor.

Their morning training session was at the range and Clint had a feeling Gun Guy – nobody had bothered to introduce themselves yet and Clint sure as hell wasn't going to ask – who seemed to be the leader, had planned it that way to see if Clint was up to snuff on this whole sniper thing.

When they reached the range, another team was there. But all it took was a sharp look from Gun Guy and newly-conscious Redhead for them to clear out.

C-4 Guy hitched himself up to sit on top of a metal barrel that had seen better days, but seemed to be there to serve as a makeshift table. Tech Guy leaned his hip against the barrel and eyed Clint warily.

"He must think he's like Robin Hood or some shit." That was Ponytail. He 'whispered' the words around his cigar as he leaned towards Redhead. The larger man huffed a laugh and sneered at Clint.

Clint glanced at the leader. Gun Guy nodded towards the targets at the other end of the range. So no making this look like it was anything other than it was – a test. Clint mentally shrugged and casually drew an arrow.

"You know…" he made a show of holding the arrow up to his eye to check the shaft, "Robin Hood – he stole from the rich and gave it to the poor."

He carefully nocked the arrow and slowly pulled the bow string back as he brought the bow up and sighted down at the targets. He could feel Ponytail and Redhead watching him, but he didn't look at them.

"Me – I like money way too much to give it away."

"Sounds to me like you're all talk," Ponytail snarled at him, before turning his head to share a sneer with Redhead.

Clint blamed what happened next on two things: his low blood sugar and his need to get these guys to take him seriously.

He turned his body without warning and loosed the arrow.

It whistled through the air and sliced into the cigar hanging from Ponytail's lips. It carried the cigar right out of his mouth and pinned it to the wooden observation wall – meant as a safe place to observe training through the bullet proof glass – that stood fifteen feet behind him.

"Holy shit!" C-4 Guy slid off the barrel and stared with a wide-eyed grin at the arrow.

Tech Guy paled a shade, but also looked marginally impressed.

Gun Guy's eyebrow was arched and he actually looked shocked.

Redhead's hand had drifted absently to his bruised temple, as if he were slowly putting together actions and consequences when it came to harassing Clint.

And now cigar-less Ponytail? He looked pissed. And pale.

"Hot damn, am I the only one that's glad Aussie got pinched?" C-4 Guy strode up to Clint and clapped him on the shoulder. Clint tossed him a warning glare and shrugged the hand off. The dark-haired man didn't look offended as he put his hands up in apology. "I'm Braxton, but everybody just calls me Boomer. I'm the guy you go to if you want to blow something up."

That explained the C-4.

"That guy with the permanently superior look on his face – that's our team leader, Mathis." Boomer leaned closer. "He's a real hard ass, but if you do your job he's not so bad."

Boomer nodded at Tech Guy.

"That squirrelly looking guy is Anderson – but we call him Andy. He handles our tech and don't let his small stature fool you. He's a scrappy little fighter."

Andy shot Boomer a single-fingered gesture that just made the explosives expert smile.

"That lovely hulk of a man you laid out earlier is MacCabe." Boomer nudged his arm. "He does all the heavy lifting, but don't ask him to do any complex thinking."

Clint snorted and Boomer laughed.

"And that charming little devil you just pissed off six ways from Sunday is Reyes. He's our stealth wet-work guy.  _And_  he's a mean mother fucker that he tends to hold grudges."

Clint sighed, eyeing Reyes up. If looks could kill, Clint would probably be dropping dead right about now.

"That just leaves you. In case you missed it, we go by last names here. Nobody even knows anybody's first. Everybody does it, even the head honchos."

Clint knew he couldn't give his real last name. No one in the contract world ever knew his name, it was part of the anonymity he was famous for. The same would have to hold true here, even if it made him stand out.

"Call me Hawkeye."

He swore every single one of them – even badass Reyes – stopped breathing.

"Wait, wait, wait…you mean you're  _the_  Hawkeye? The contract guy?"

Clint just arched an eyebrow at Boomer, who looked torn between stepping away from him and asking for his autograph.

"No shit?"

Clint stared at him.

"No shit." Boomer nodded in appreciation and glanced at Mathis, whose gaze had suddenly gained a new level of respect. "As much fun as nicknames are – and I would know – don't you have a real name?"

Clint felt the muscle in his jaw twitch. He didn't –  _hadn't_  – back in his contract days. He'd been a ghost. He hadn't been Clint Barton anymore. He'd been nothing but Hawkeye.

"It's just Hawkeye."

Boomer assessed him for a long moment before nodding slowly.

"Just Hawkeye it is." Mathis granted him a sharp nod of approval and then started snapping out orders about getting their training session started. Clint slowly blew out a breath and moved to his designated lane of the range. Mathis told him they'd outfit him with a sniper rifle before the day was out and that he was looking forward to seeing what Clint could do with it.

Clint rolled his neck and reached for an arrow, he had it nocked and then flying before he'd let out a full breath. He watched it sail down the range and slam into the center of one of the targets. Boomer shook his head in amazement and muttered under his breath from the lane next to him and watched with interest as Clint drew another arrow and repeated the process. The second arrow landed so close to the first, that from this distance it was hard to distinguish them at all.

Well, at least he'd made an impression.

* * *

Their day was training on top of training, with more training just for kicks. He didn't know if it was because he was the new guy, or if it was just how they operated, but he didn't get a moment alone until right before dinner. As their team headed towards the mess hall, Clint nudged Boomer.

"I gotta hit the head."

Boomer nodded good-naturedly and waved him off.

Clint jogged towards their bunkhouse and went in. He wasn't confident that Ruiz didn't have the rooms wired, so he went straight back to the bathroom and shoved open the window. He crawled out easily enough and moved away from it, crouching low in the shadows of the building. Theirs was the last bunkhouse in the row so as long as the perimeter patrol didn't happen to glance this way – and he'd already noticed they were more for keeping people out than in – he wouldn't be seen.

"4-9-4-9-6-2-Delta-Zulu." He spoke his SHIELD ID code quietly but quickly, knowing he had to speak it to activate the transmitter and open the line to Phil. It wasn't ideal, but he knew if he left the line open, his worry-wart, mother-hen of a handler would never leave the transceiver monitor.

" _Hawkeye?"_

"Who'd you expect, Overwatch? The tooth fairy?"

He heard Phil laugh over the line and found himself smiling.

" _What's your status?"_

"I'm in."

" _Your cover held up?"_

"Considering it's not really a cover, yeah, there were virtually no questions asked. They were practically salivating over the idea of having me on payroll."

" _Ruiz?"_

"Not on location. Vincent Cohen is the one that did the recruiting. He said Ruiz is out of country on an op."

" _So you're going to have to settle in."_

"Looks like."

There was a pause and Clint waited.

" _What's your status with the other mercenaries?"_

That wasn't what Phil wanted to ask, Clint could sense it, but he went with it anyway.

"Well, I beat down a guy literally four times my size and shot a cigar out of another guy's mouth. I'd say I've earned a grudging respect."

" _Good. Any ideas about where their compound is located?"_

"Roughly 40 minutes outside of Cairo. I couldn't tell you which direction though."

Phil sighed deeply. Clint had figured he wouldn't like that part.

" _And you're okay?"_

And there it was – the worry. Clint smiled. It warmed him, in a way, to know Phil cared enough to worry.

"I'm fine."

" _Yeah, keep it that way, would you?"_

"I'll do my best." Clint looked at his watch. He needed to go. "I gotta go or they'll wonder what's taking me so long."

" _Take care of yourself, Hawk."_

"Yeah. Hawkeye out."

Clint moved back to the window. "Hawkeye out" was the deactivation code for the transmitter. It was convenient because that's how he ended every call in. It also meant that if shit went south, he couldn't be accidentally cut off.

He levered himself through the window and jogged through the bathroom and bunkhouse. He kept up his pace until he hit the mess hall. Then he slowed and blew out a breath.

Back into the lion's den.

* * *

He caught sight of Boomer waving him over as he moved away from the chow line. For such a big operation, they didn't skimp on the food, Clint had to give them that. He had a delicious-looking double bacon cheeseburger, fries, chocolate pudding, and a blue Gatorade.

Boomer motioned him into the seat next to him and Clint dropped his tray down and sat.

"So we've got a bet going about your age. Care to settle it for us?"

Clint arched a dubious eyebrow and tossed a fry in his mouth without responding.

"Come on, man! There's cash involved. Mathis has his money on 21. Andy says 23. MacCabe is going with 12," Boomer shot the red-headed ogre a dry look, "Reyes says 22 and I'm going with 20."

"What's it matter?" Clint shrugged and took a bite of his burger.

"Five hundred dollars is what it matters." Mathis put in as he cut ruthlessly into a piece of chicken on his plate and shoveled it into his mouth.

"And what do I get out of it?"

"Spoken like a true Ares operative." Andy laughed.

Boomer reached to grip Clint's shoulder then thought better of it and let his hand drop down to the table.

"If I'm right, I'll split it with you."

"And if none of you are right?" Clint arched an eyebrow and took another bite of his burger.

Reyes snorted.

"There's no way you're older than 23."

Clint just blinked calmly and tossed a few fries into his mouth.

"Come on, Hawk, throw us a bone." Boomer pleaded.

Clint narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and looked around at all of them as he unscrewed the cap of his Gatorade. He took a long swallow and recapped it.

"Nineteen."

They all blinked blankly at him and Clint just picked his burger back up and took another bite, chewing casually.

"You're shitting me." Mathis actually looked startled.

Clint just quirked his eyebrows and took another bite. A silent way of telling them they could believe it or not believe it, he didn't give a shit.

"But you're just a kid." Andy looked disturbed by this revelation.

Clint shrugged and tossed a few fries into his mouth.

"One thing I've learned in this business," he took another swig of his drink. "It's not the years that matter…it's the mileage." And he had certainly gotten plenty of that in his year working contracts and then the last year with SHIELD.

Next to him Boomer shook his head in fascination.

"A philosopher too, huh? You're quite the triple threat."

Clint quirked his eyebrow curiously and Boomer grinned.

"Threat number one," he held up one finger, "is obvious. You're a dead shot. Threat number two," he held up a second finger, "you're an ass-kicker as proven by MacCabe's untimely demise."

MacCabe didn't look pleased about that reminder, but Boomer ignored him and held up a third finger.

"And threat number three – just recently discovered – you've got brains rattling around up there instead of just rocks like some of the rest of us." Boomer slid a sideways look at MacCabe and Clint smirked.

"It's one thing taking down a man with no warning," Reyes spoke up quietly as he stared down the table and met Clint's eyes. "The true test will be if he can survive The Ring tonight."

Clint blinked blankly.

"It's his first night, Reyes." Boomer frowned and glanced at Clint.

"Anyone can be challenged at any time, those are the rules."

"Fuck you, Reyes." Boomer scowled and looked back at Clint, who was still blinking blankly. "The Ring is like an organized fight club. Helps guys let off some aggression. There's organized betting and the winner of each fight takes home the preset winnings."

"Who sets up the fights?"

"It works off a challenge system. You can only issue a challenge if you have a win under your belt. You can refuse a challenge, but it counts as a double loss."

"Double loss?"

"Supposed to discourage cowardice. Some guys are real assholes about it, challenging guys half their size just so they can get a win."

"Why can't you just take the losses?"

Boomer shook his head.

"You don't want to do that. Whoever has the most losses at the end of the week has to go head-to-head with whoever has the most wins. It's usually a bloodbath that has to get called. Four guys have gotten killed in one of those matchups since I've been here."

Clint chewed some fries as he digested this new information.

"How long have you been here?"

"What is it," Boomer glanced at Mathis, "over a year now?"

"Fourteen months." Mathis confirmed as he finished off his chicken.

"I was the new guy until you showed up, so I, for one, am glad you're here."

Clint rolled his eyes. Something told him 'the new guy' wasn't exactly the best position to be in. It also meant that all the other guys, Mathis, Andy, MacCabe, and Reyes, had all been here longer. They were tight-knit, that he could already tell. If he was going to gain any sort of trust, he was going to have to prove himself.

The Ring sounded like a perfect place for that.

* * *

It wasn't until well after nightfall that he and Boomer made their way out of the bunk house. When they got to the fight arena, Clint decided that 'The Ring' was about as creative a title as Ares was. It was literally a half wall, made of wood, shaped into a circle – The Ring.

Men were crowded around the edge of the circle, jeering and cheering alike as a two men went bare knuckle at each other in the dirt.

"So the way it works," Boomer spoke loudly to be heard over the yelling and cheering, "is there are no less than three, no more than five fights a night. Cohen runs the arena, so the first five fighters to get cleared by him gets to issue the challenges. The first guy yells out a name, whoever it is either steps forward and agrees or backs down. If they both agree to fight, you get ten minutes to put in an official bet with the guys at that table." Boomer nodded towards a table at the other end of the arena area with five men sitting side by side behind it. "You can make private bets, but the payout is higher at the table."

"How do you win?" Because honestly, that's what mattered most to him at the moment.

"Each fight has to last at least 10 minutes. The only way it ends early is by knock out or yield. It takes a hell of a lot to get any of these guys to yield though, so if you get a chance for a KO, just do it."

"And after 10 minutes?"

"If it's looking close to ending, Cohen waves them on. Otherwise, he calls it and chooses a winner. Believe it or not, I've never seen the man show favorites. He's annoyingly objective."

Clint leaned so he could see Vincent Cohen where he was standing on a platform near the betting table. He stood with his arms crossed, his face tight with concentration, and his eyes pinned on the fight.

"Shit, looks like Reyes got in tonight."

Clint pulled his attention away from Cohen and followed Boomer's line of sight. Sure enough, Reyes was standing with two other guys in a sectioned-off area next to the ring. A buzzer sounded loudly from the betting table and the two guys in the ring paused. One of them was wavering heavily, but still looked fierce. The other had one eye swollen shut and blood was practically running rivers out of his mouth, but he looked equally determined.

Cohen looked them both over carefully, glanced briefly at the men in the sectioned area, then looked back at the fighters.

"Riley." He announced loudly and clearly.

Half the men in the arena area started cheering, the other half started yelling protests, but money was already changing hands and people were heading towards the betting table.

"Next challenger – Reyes, step into the ring."

Clint locked eyes with Reyes as the other man jumped the wall and walked to the middle of the ring. Their gazes stayed locked even as Boomer leaned closer and spoke.

"You don't have to do this, there's already someone with three losses this week, so you won't be in the final fight. Reyes's just pissed about the cigar thing."

"Your challenge?" Cohen prompted.

Reyes held Clint's gaze and smirked darkly.

"Hawkeye."

The man's voice barely rose above a whisper, but Clint could have sworn he yelled for the sudden silence in the arena.

"Hawkeye…" Boomer tried, but Clint waved him off.

"Don't worry so much, Boomer." Clint tossed him a smirk, but didn't break eye contact with Reyes. "I'm a triple threat, remember?" With that he braced his hands on the edge of the wall and vaulted easily over into the ring.

Whispers rose immediately, bringing the noise level in the arena to a dull roar. He wondered if it the sudden curiosity had more to do with his reputation as an assassin or the fact that he looked about half the age of most of the men in the arena.

"You accept?" Cohen asked with a curious arch to his eyebrow.

Clint shot him a deadpan look and stretched his neck from side to side.

"We've got a fight! Place your bets! Reyes vs. Hawkeye!"

Then Clint had ten minutes to stand there and size Reyes up. The man was lean, but solidly built. He could tell by looking at him that he was fast. His dark eyes held Clint's, practically projecting loathing across the space between them. Reyes's fists kept clenching and unclenching as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

This wasn't going to be like the fight with MacCabe. The red-haired oaf hadn't seen Clint as a threat. It had been a mistake, but one that Reyes had learned from. Reyes was assessing Clint as thoroughly as he was Reyes. The man didn't intend to be caught off guard like MacCabe had been.

Clint flexed his hands at his sides, but otherwise kept his stance and posture relaxed. Phil had always told him that his stance was misleading. He appeared to all the world like he was off his guard, when, in reality, Clint was  _never_  off his guard. He'd spent too much time looking over his shoulder, with only his own skills as a defense. The only person that constant physical and mental guard slipped around was Phil – and even that wasn't often.

Reyes was going to be tough, but Clint knew the fight was winnable.

Reyes was going to be fast, but Clint would be faster. That was going to be the difference.

More quickly than he expected, the ten minutes passed and the buzzer sounded to signal the start of the fight. Reyes stalked towards him immediately.

"You don't have your bow this time,  _pendejo._ "

Clint arched his eyebrow at the insult. While he'd heard traces of some sort of Latino background in the man's voice, this was the first time he'd heard him use any language other than English. Clint wondered if he should feel special.

Clint waited until Reyes was almost right on top of him before reacting. The other man led with a right hook and Clint ducked under it. As Reyes's body twisted with the momentum of the missed hit, Clint slammed his right palm into the back of Reyes's elbow to force him to twist farther. Then he sliced his left fist into a hard uppercut into the other man's exposed right side.

Clint backed out of reach in the seconds it took Reyes to recover.

Reyes looked a little more wary as he approached a second time. Clint dropped into his actual combat stance and curled his hands loosely up in front of his chest. Phil always told him his best asset in a fight was his speed.

" _If you can dodge, don't settle for a block. I'll spend more energy missing completely than I would if you blocked me."_

Reyes feinted a left cross and then struck with his right leg instead, sweeping it in a low kick. Clint jumped, barely cleared the leg, and had to immediately drop into a crouch to avoid the left hook that Reyes struck out with next.

" _Patience, kid."_

Phil's words whispered through his mind as he leaned left to avoid a jab.

Reyes spun on his heel, swinging his body into a crisp roundhouse kick he angled at Clint's head.

Clint bent backwards, reaching back with his left hand until he touched the dirt. The other man's leg swept over the space above him and Clint waited until it had passed completely before making a move. Reyes was still turning with the rotation of the wasted kick when Clint struck.

His left hand still braced in the dirt, he drew all of his weight onto it and levered the rest of his body up, kicking out with first his left leg, then his right. Both boots slammed into Reyes's exposed kidney in quick succession.

Then he pushed off with his left hand and slung his torso upwards. He got his feet beneath him just in time to land in a low crouch.

Reyes was already dropping into a low sweeping kick, so Clint exploded up and back. He tucked into a tight ball as he spun through the air and landed lightly on his feet – again out of reach.

They circled each other slowly.

Reyes seemed to be waiting now for Clint to make the first move. But Clint wouldn't. That was another one of Phil's lessons.

" _Defense, Barton._ "

Always defense and when the time was right, hit so hard with offense that the other guy can't recover.

So Clint waited.

Reyes waited.

The crowd booed.

"Are you fighting or slow dancing!"

"This ain't no playground!"

"Do something!"

Clint was a SHIELD operative – the youngest there had ever been. He'd dealt with more than his fair share of jeering and had learned – admittedly slower than he should have – to let it roll off his back.

Reyes didn't seem so immune.

Impatience rose in his gaze and finally overwhelmed him. He moved at Clint again.

This time he was pissed. Clint had made a fool of him so far and he'd apparently decided enough was enough. He came hard and fast.

Dodging every hit was no longer an option.

The first high kick he had to block with his arm. It landed so hard, it sent him two steps to the left. He didn't get a chance to recover before a fist slammed into his short ribs. An elbow to his cheek put Clint on the ground.

He got his hands under him in time to mostly block the kick at his ribs, but the force still twisted him onto his back. He rolled up into a half situp just in time to dodge the boot swinging at his head. He rolled back just as quickly and pulled his legs up and back, curling back over himself and scissoring his legs up between Reyes's before the other man had a chance to recover from the missed kick.

All Clint's weight was on the top of his shoulders, his head tucked so sharply that his chin was pressing into his chest. But he was able to tighten his legs around Reyes, and sharply uncurl his body. Reyes grunted in surprise as he was lifted off his feet and yanked over Clint's prone body to be slammed hard onto his back.

Clint kicked away, rolled into a backwards somersault and came smoothly to his feet. Reyes had already climbed to his feet and charged at him. His shoulder hit Clint low in the gut and the force lifted him off his feet. Reyes had latched onto the back of Clint's legs, and was still moving. Heading right for the wooden half-wall. He was hoping to slam Clint into it.

Clint wasn't going to let it get that far.

He slammed his palms into the top of Reyes's shoulders and threw his weight as hard as he could over the man's shoulder. Startled, Reyes's grip on his legs loosened and it gave Clint the freedom he needed. He folded himself over Reyes's shoulder, and arched a leg over his head, hooking it behind his shoulder and under his left arm. Clint, gripping the other man's leather belt and the back of his shirt for balance, took a breath and threw all his weight into a downward twist to his right.

He had one leg locked across Reyes's chest, the other scissored behind him and hooked under his left arm. There was nothing he could do but follow Clint's momentum. Clint hit the ground hard on his back, but it was worth it. Reyes was twisted off his feet and slammed face first into the ground.

Clint was almost able to scoot away before Reyes recovered, but the other man latched onto his pant leg at the last second. He yanked Clint towards him as he pushed to his feet. Clint fought back a wince as his t-shirt rode up his back and the ground scraped against the exposed skin.

Reyes's nose was freshly bleeding and a cut above his left eyebrow had painted the left side of his face red. He slammed his elbow into Clint's nearest thigh and then leaned forward to try and slam a fist into Clint's exposed abdomen.

Clint let the hit land, tensed his abs and absorbed it as best he could. But before Reyes could draw back, Clint latched onto his arm with both hands. He used his grip as leverage to pull his legs up and hooked his feet together behind Reyes's head.

It was a submission hold and if Clint could hold it tight enough for long enough, Reyes would have to yield – or lose consciousness.

Reyes slammed his free hand into Clint's ribs, but he ignored it and just focused on tightening his legs. Reyes shouted in frustration and then straightened. Clint tightened his hold further and strained to keep his body tensed even as he was lifted off the ground. Reyes stumbled a step and then bent again, slamming Clint's back against the ground.

Tighter. He twisted the hand he had captive to add a little more urgency.

Reyes picked him up again and slammed him down again, but Clint didn't loosen his hold. Another wild hit to Clint's ribs told him Reyes was getting desperate.

 _Finally_  the other man started losing strength. Clint went from being braced mostly on his shoulder blades, to having his whole back flat against the ground. Reyes's feet kicked frantically in the dirt, but eventually he went to his knees and his repetitive, wild hits at Clint's exposed side got weaker.

Reyes's dark eyes met his and locked on.

It seemed like an eternity that they stared at each other. Steely blue-gray locked onto deep, dark brown. Then Reyes stopped struggling and clenched his free fist. Then, slowly, he spread his free hand out flat and raised it up.

"Reyes yields!" Cohen announced. "Hawkeye wins!"

Clint held him captive for a half a breath longer before unlocking his legs and letting Reyes push away. For a long moment Clint just laid there on his back, realizing for the first time that he was breathing fast and hard. Finally he pushed himself up and climbed to his feet, risking a glance across the ring to Reyes. The other man was looking right back at him, red faced and breathing hard.

Then the remarkable happened.

Reyes gave him a nod.

He was in.

* * *

End of Chapter 3

Whoo-hoo...I love me a good brawl. What about you guys?

You know how I feel about comments, so be awesome and drop me a line, huh? ;)

To hold you over until tomorrow...a preview of Chapter 4

* * *

_**"Any word on Ruiz?"** _

_"He's coming in tomorrow. I'm part of the escort team."_

_**"Good. It's about time."** _

_"I'll find an opening and take him out as soon as possible."_

_**"An opening with a clean exit."** Phil amended.  **"You don't need to rush this."**_

_Except Clint really felt like he **did**. He felt like if he didn't finish this soon, he wasn't going to be able to pull himself back out of this dark hole he was slipping into. But he couldn't tell Phil that, couldn't worry him or risk him pulling him out early._

_He had to do this. He had to finish it or it was all for nothing._


	4. On A Stormy Sea Of Moving Emotion

_Thanks to all of you that expressed appreciation for my fight sequences. They take time to plan and write, so I'm glad the effort is appreciated :) You've got a few more to look forward too in this story so buckle up!_

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Shout out to those who guessed the song correctly last chapter:_ **hgb**   _and_ **sgflutegirl** **  
**

_Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 3:_ **Isi7140, Evenstar129, hgb, immertreu, sgflutegirl, GoldOwl89**

_Special thank you to my two amazing betas_ **Kylen**   _and_ **JRBarton _._** _They make me a better writer and I wouldn't be the writer I am without them._

_So, that's enough from me! Go read Chapter 4!_

* * *

_Pain is just weakness leaving the body.  
_ _**General Lewis B Puller, US Marine** _

* * *

"Hey,  _pendejo_!"

Clint opened his eyes and looked across the training gym. Reyes was jogging towards him with a mischievous smirk lighting his lips. Clint arched a wary eyebrow and glanced over to Boomer, who was doing chin ups on the bar next to Clint's. The explosives expert shrugged as best he could given his current activity, and resumed his workout.

Left with no other option, Clint looked back down at Reyes as the man reached him and jerked his chin to show he was listening.

"Halstad from the Echo Team's been talking shit about you. Says he can out shoot you anytime, anywhere."

Clint snorted.

"Halstad is an idiot who couldn't shoot his own ass with a round of buckshot."

Reyes's smirk turned devious.

"That's why I set up a match."

"You'd think these guys would get tired of being humiliated." Boomer grunted as he continued his chin ups and tossed Clint a grin.

"When?" Clint asked as he slowly bent his arms, touching his chin to the bar and then straightened them again.

Reyes didn't respond for a long moment and Clint looked at him expectantly.

"I swear,  _pendejo_ , you are the only man alive that does that upside down."

Clint huffed a laugh and bent his arms again, keeping his body perfectly straight, toes pointed towards the ceiling, and touched his chin to the bar. Then he pushed up again into the handstand he'd been holding when Reyes walked in.

"When's the match, Reyes?"

"Twenty minutes."

Clint scowled.

"Better not cut into my meal time."

Reyes scowled at him.

"You can eat when you're dead."

That had Clint rolling his eyes and shifting to stand on one hand when Reyes jumped up to try and swipe at his wrist.

"Down, boy." Clint scolded. "What's the bet?"

"One thousand."

Clint nodded once and did another upside down chin up.

"I'll meet you at the range in fifteen."

Reyes nodded and rubbed his hands together greedily as he walked back out of the gym.

"Pleasure doing business,  _pendejo_!"

"He  _does_  know that's an insult, right?" Boomer dropped down from the chin up bar and reached for his water.

"Oh, he knows." Clint smirked and shifted his hands.

"And yet you just let it happen."

Clint folded his body down slowly and methodically, bracing his feet on the bar between his hands.

"Coming from Reyes, I see it as a term of endearment."

That and he couldn't get the man to  _stop_. In the two weeks since their fight, his and Reyes working relationship had grown…interesting. Reyes was a hard man and a mean bastard – to  _everyone_ , Clint included. But holy hell, he was a protective son of a bitch. God help anyone else that dared say a cross word to or about Clint, Boomer, or anyone else on Reyes's team.

Clint often compared him to a guard dog – a vicious, deadly, likely-to-bite-the-hand-that-feeds-it, guard dog.

Clint chuckled to himself at the mental image of Reyes with a spiked collar and pushed himself up so he was standing on the bar.

"You gonna fight tonight?" Boomer, no doubt used to Clint's tendency towards acrobatics, tossed his Gatorade up to him. Clint caught it easily and stretched his neck.

"I'm thinking Brantley."

Boomer scowled up at him while Clint uncapped his Gatorade and took a drink.

"Brantley is about three times your size."

"So was Davis last week and I beat him."

"You also got a colorfully bruised set of ribs and got damn near dislocated your elbow."

Clint capped his Gatorade and threw it back down, admittedly with more force than necessary.

"But I  _didn't_. And thanks for your concern,  _mom_ , but I can handle him. Besides, even with another win, I won't be in the lead for the final fight."

"That still doesn't explain why you can't pick someone  _not_  sired by a giant."

Clint rolled his eyes, crouched, and exploded up and back. He tucked his body into a ball and spun towards the ground. He landed in an easy crouch and jabbed a finger at Boomer.

"I'm not going to be one of those assholes like Martinez that only challenges the guys he knows he can beat."

"Yeah or  _maybe_  you just like taking punishment."

Clint rolled his eyes and snatched back his Gatorade.

"If I wanted a therapy session, I'd go talk to Dr. Phil."

 _Phil._  Clint wasn't ready for the mixture of feelings that sprung up at the thought of his handler. He hadn't talked to Phil in a couple days. Part of him missed the other man more than he expected to. Another part dreaded every call in because he knew that he was slipping farther and farther away from the Clint that Phil knew. It felt like every day that went by he became more and more like the old Hawkeye. There had been days where he'd gone the whole day without thinking about Phil, SHIELD, or his mission.

And he  _knew_  Phil sensed it.

But pulling back now, reigning in that part of himself, it wouldn't do any good. The job wasn't done. He had to live here. He had to work with these guys every day. He  _couldn't_  be Clint. Clint cared too much. Hawkeye didn't – at least not in a way that anyone could see. Hawkeye did what was expected of him and didn't blink.

Hawkeye also fought in The Ring almost every night.

"Fuck you, Hawk."

Clint focused back on Boomer, who was looking sour about that Dr. Phil comment. He smirked in true Hawkeye fashion and lifted his Gatorade in mocking salute.

"Right back at ya', Boomer."

Then Clint turned and walked away.

* * *

Boomer looked sharply to his left when a cup of chocolate pudding slammed down on the table next to him. He looked up at the new arrival and found Hawkeye staring down at him with a blank expression. Across from Boomer, Andy looked up from his plate and tossed a glance back and forth between them.

"You gonna stop pouting like a little bitch?"

Andy snorted. Barton's apologies were always so sweet and genuine. Boomer scowled up at him, quirking his eyebrow sarcastically.

"You gonna give me your pudding to make it all better like we're in kindergarten?"

Hawkeye glared hard at him for a moment longer before grinning and taking the seat next to Boomer at the table. He slid the pudding over to Boomer and then turned to his own food.

Boomer picked up the pudding cup and looked it over. It was as close to an apology as Hawk would get, so Boomer would just have to take it.

"The Hun running the line today would only give me one, so that better get me clear of your bitch fits for a while."

And then there was  _that_  to ruin the sentiment.

Boomer rolled his eyes and dropped the pudding down on the table next to his tray.

"With a personality like yours, I don't know why she didn't give you a whole pack."

Hawkeye smirked at him with a sideways look and dug into his cheeseburger.

Sometimes this kid fascinated him.

Sarcastic insults were practically a required part of conversation, and the more biting the comment, the more Hawkeye seemed to appreciate it. It was strange, but also entertaining. It also made talking to the kid easy – even if he didn't always talk back – because Boomer rarely had to watch what he said. Hawkeye was practically impossible to offend.

Boomer wasn't sure if that was because the kid was just that calm and collected or if it was because he didn't really give a fuck what anyone here thought or said about him.

Boomer tended to lean towards the second option. Ares was a just a stop-over for Hawkeye, that much was obvious. Even though he was here with them, training and doing his job, he wasn't  _with_  them. He was careful to keep everyone on the team at a certain distance, even Boomer. And as soon as the heat died down from SHIELD, he would walk away. He'd disappear back into the shadows he'd been living in before Ares and they'd probably never see him again.

Half the time Boomer wasn't even sure why he liked being around the kid so much. He wasn't sure why he kept going to the trouble of trying to connect, to become Hawkeye's  _friend_. The archer sure didn't make it easy. But, every now and then, Boomer would get a flash – sometimes for just a second – of something  _different_. There was something undeniable about this kid, something that lurked beneath the tough, angry exterior. There was more to him than the stone-cold killer he pretended to be, Boomer could sense it. There was something hidden –  _guarded_  – that didn't fit with the picture he presented to the world.

Hawkeye was different. Boomer didn't know how he knew, he just  _knew_.

"You keep thinking that hard, you're gonna have an aneurism."

Boomer rolled his eyes and wondered again why he liked the kid so damned much.

"How'd the match go?"

Hawkeye smirked and fished a wad of bills out of his pocket and waved it in front of Boomer's nose. Why had he even asked? Hawkeye hadn't lost a match at the range since he got here, and most of the time, he made it look laughably easy too.

Reyes took his seat across from Hawkeye, a smug, satisfied smirk on his face. He'd probably already counted his cut of Hawkeye's winnings several times. He didn't spare either of them more than a glance before digging into his plate of spaghetti with enthusiasm.

Hawkeye, too, was keeping his eyes down, focused on the food before him and seemingly nothing else. The kid had a thing about food. He liked it,  _a lot_. And he always seemed to be eating. If he wasn't eating, he was hungry. Boomer wasn't sure where he put it all.

"Where's Mathis?" Reyes asked gruffly and without looking up from his food.

"Had a brief with Cohen," Andy answered quickly as he tossed his utensils down onto his empty plate.

"We catching a job?" Reyes perked up, lifting his dark eyes to stare hard at their tech guy.

Andy shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned by Reyes's glare. Andy may be a squirrely little guy, but he was as cool as they came…usually. The only time Boomer had seen him startled was when their new sniper had dropped into their lives with all the subtlety of a freight train.

"What about MacCabe? Where is he?" Reyes asked as he glanced at the empty seat next to him that his friend would usually occupy. Andy shrugged again and Boomer opened his mouth to say that MacCabe hadn't shown up for meal time yet, but Hawkeye cut him off.

"There."

All three of them looked at the archer, to find his gaze fixed on something off to his right. How the kid could appear to be completely focused on one thing and ignoring everything else, but then notice something none of them had, was just flat out amazing…and unsettling.

They followed his line of sight just as a chorus of shouts rose across the mess hall. Sure enough, MacCabe was in the thick of it. As they watched, their hulking team member lifted another man clear off the ground by the front of his shirt and tossed him – like he didn't weigh  _anything_  – several feet away. The man crashed into one of the tables, upsetting the team that had been mid-meal.

Reyes stood, mumbling under his breath and stalked towards the scuffle.

Boomer stayed where he was and just watched. Hawkeye actually went back to his food, seemingly having lost interest. It was just as well. MacCabe tended to get into a scuffle nearly every day. He, unlike Hawkeye, was  _very_  easy to offend.

Boomer startled out of his thoughts when an elbow jabbed into his arm.

He turned his glare onto Hawkeye, who was chewing the last bit of his dinner. The archer's steely blue-gray gaze met Boomer's then dropped to the pudding cup, then rose back to Boomer.

"You gonna eat that?"

Boomer rolled his eyes and slid it across the table.

* * *

"Hey, look at this one."

Clint looked up from where he was sitting on his bunk, carefully waxing his bowstring, when Boomer's boot nudged his knee. The explosives expert was sprawled on the bed next to Clint's, meticulously molding a block of C-4 into various shapes.

Clint blinked at the tiny, gray horse – at least he thought it was a horse – resting on Boomer's palm.

"Get it?"

Clint turned his blank stare onto Boomer and quirked an eyebrow.

Boomer smirked with goofy pride.

"An explosive horse…you know, like a modern version of the  _Trojan_  horse."

Clint blinked blankly again and met the other man's eyes.

"You're an idiot," he said.

Boomer scowled at him and moodily smashed the horse back into a ball.

"You're an asshole, Hawk, you know that?"

Clint chuckled under his breath. Sometimes aggravating Boomer was as easy as aggravating Phil.

The stray thought of his handler had his hand pausing as he rubbed the wax into his bow string.

"What?" Boomer demanded with a scowl.

Clint shook his head to clear it and tossed Boomer a brief glance.

"Nothing."

Boomer looked like he was gearing up to call bullshit when Mathis suddenly stomped into the bunkroom, drawing their attention.

"We've got an assignment."

"About time." Reyes muttered as he sat up from where he'd been napping on his bunk. Andy was sitting on the floor, various tech-y looking things spread out around him. He looked up from the pieces of equipment for the first time in the hour and half they'd been in the bunk room since finishing dinner.

"What's the job?" MacCabe demanded as he jumped up from where he'd been doing push-ups with his feet propped on his bunk.

"Escort. Ruiz is coming back tomorrow and he requested us specifically to escort him back to the compound." Mathis crossed his arms over his chest and shot a look at Clint that he couldn't quite decipher.

"Escort? Seriously?" MacCabe growled. "We're the Alphas! We don't do  _escorts_."

"We do now." Mathis snapped back, all the authority of his team leader position ringing in his tone.

MacCabe still looked pissed, but didn't argue further.

"Cohen said Ruiz will be coming in hot. He thinks he picked up a tail from his last job and we're going to make sure whoever it is doesn't catch up to him. Plus…" Mathis's gaze slid to Clint again, "Ruiz wants to meet  _you_."

Clint quirked an eyebrow. Well, didn't he feel special.

"Apparently you're some hot shit and Ruiz is shitting rainbows over you signing on."

Clint shrugged a shoulder and looked back at his bow string.

"Sounds like you've got a fan." Boomer nudged his knee again and smirked.

Clint resisted the urge to scowl. A man like Ruiz being a fan of him wasn't exactly a compliment. In fact, it pissed him off. He glanced at his watch, wondering how long was left until the fights started for the night.

"We roll out at zero-five hundred to clear the landing strip and the surrounding area. Ruiz touches down at zero-seven-thirty and we'll escort him back from there."

"Where's he landing?" Andy asked as he stood from the floor and grabbed one of the rolled maps from the designated storage bunk.

"Private strip on the other side of the city. He doesn't want to risk anyone that followed him to get a bead on the compound."

"Meaning we'll have to travel  _through_  the city with him?" Reyes growled. "Does he realize how many attack points there are on those streets?"

"We'll have to stick to the outskirts." Clint put in as he set his bow aside and started putting away his waxing kit.

"He's right," Andy agreed as he looked over the map he'd spread out. "Staying on the outer streets is the only way to insure we don't get penned in if something goes wrong."

"We'll do a reverse run on our way to the landing strip." Mathis decided. "Gear up and rest up." With that, their leader turned and left the bunk room.

Boomer glanced at him.

"So, you gonna rest up?"

Clint rolled his eyes.

"And pass up on my cut of the winnings when you bet on me? No way."

"Hawk…"

"Meet me at the Ring. I've gotta go make sure I get to Cohen within the first five." Clint pushed up from his bunk and moved towards the door before Boomer could reply. His teammate worried too much, kind of like someone else Clint knew.

* * *

Clint braced his forearms on the edge of the wall and watched the fight before him come to an end. Cohen declared the winner and then waved Clint into the Ring.

"Who are you challenging?"

Clint glanced around the perimeter of The Ring until his eyes found his target.

"Brantley."

The crowd murmured with excitement as his opponent, Brantley, jumped into the ring and stalked towards him. The man was a goon, there was just no other way to describe it. He was closer to seven feet tall than six and had at  _least_  ninety pounds on Clint, and that was being optimistic.

Cohen glanced back and forth between them and then muttered something about a death wish.

"Brantley, I assume you accept."

The goon nodded and grunted.

Clint smirked cockily.

For ten minutes, while bets were placed, they sized each other up.

When the buzzer finally sounded, Brantley moved almost immediately. Clint let him come, keeping his stance loose and relaxed.

Boomer had accused him of picking fights like this because he liked taking punishment. But he was wrong. He didn't  _like_  it. He  _needed_ it. He needed it to keep him from getting comfortable, to keep from forgetting that this version of himself, this dark and ruthless Hawkeye that beat down most opponents with an almost bloodthirsty intensity, wasn't  _okay_. This wasn't who he wanted to be. This version of himself was  _wrong_  and had always been wrong.

Picking fights with guys like this, guys that would deliver some solid hits if Clint let them, it was like a form of negative conditioning. He'd started doing it after only four days within Ares. In those four days, he'd quickly gotten into a routine, fallen into old, dark habits and started recognizing the benefits of being part of a crew like the Alphas. He'd started thinking that maybe Ares wasn't as bad as SHIELD thought. Mathis was all hard-core hardass, but the others – Reyes, Andy, Boomer, even MacCabe – weren't all that bad.

He'd gone almost a whole day thinking like that and when he realized what he was doing, it scared him. So that night he'd picked the biggest, baddest opponent he could find and he let himself take a beating.

And it had worked.

So he'd done it again a week later and was doing it again now.

It was brutal, twisted, unhealthy, and would have Phil shitting worried little kittens if he ever found out, but it kept him grounded. It kept him from slipping away.

Brantley's first swing was wild and Clint had to duck it just on principle. Besides, if he just let the guy pummel him, the crowd would grow increasingly hostile. He had to make it look good. So he ducked and dodged just like the crowd had grown to expect from him, and when the timing was right, he let the big goon get a right hook by his defenses.

The hit was hard enough to white out his vision and send him sprawling to the ground. He didn't try to block the boot that slammed into his ribs and sent him careening through the air to land solidly on his back a few feet away.

Brantley turned and raised his arms, yelling proudly as the crowd cheered. He was so damn proud of himself, landing a hit on the slippery Hawk. Clint had gone to great pains to make sure nobody knew his plan. He fought almost every night, usually challenging someone of equal or only slightly greater size than him. It usually made for a quick fight because nobody could land a hit on him.

That way – on nights like tonight – the big goons he chose would be so proud of whatever hits they landed, that they wouldn't think about the fact that Clint hadn't lost since joining Ares. Hey definitely wouldn't connect that he was just using them until he was satisfied and then he'd put them down hard.

The only one that questioned it was Boomer.

And as Clint pushed himself up, grinning around the blood dripping down his face from the cut Brantley had opened on his cheek, he caught sight of the explosives expert standing on the edge of the Ring, looking right at him.

Clint quickly looked away from the disappointed, worried look on his teammate's face. It was too much like another disappointed, worried look he got from someone else. He didn't want to think about Phil. He didn't want to think about what Phil would do if he found out about these fights.

So he turned his back on Boomer and faced Brantley.

And the dance began again.

Eventually, Clint was satisfied. He was aching, bruised, and bleeding and more importantly, he felt like Clint Barton instead of Hawkeye. He was ready to end this one. So as he used the half wall – Brantley had just thrown him into it with a great deal of force – to pull himself up, he steeled himself.

A hand suddenly landed on top of his bloodied one, keeping him from pushing away from the wall. His eyes shot up, surprised to see Boomer's familiar green gaze staring intensely back at him.

"No more messing around, finish it." The command was issued in a sharp, tight tone. The kind of tone that Clint himself used when he wanted to be obeyed without question. Boomer's hand withdrew just as quickly as it had landed and Clint pushed back from the wall, still holding his teammate's gaze. Then he nodded and turned to face his opponent.

The crowd went momentarily silent and the only sound was the eerie echo of Clint and Brantley's uneven breathing.

Then Clint stepped forward, advancing for the first time in the fight, and the crowd erupted in excited cheers. Because the men surrounding the ring saw what Brantley didn't – what Brantley was too high on his recent victories to see.

There was a change in Clint's posture.

Where he had been loose and relaxed before, now he was coiled and predatory. Aggression was suddenly bleeding into the air around him, and the only one that didn't notice was his ogre of an opponent.

"Still coming back for more?" Brantley taunted as Clint prowled towards him. "Just take the loss, kid."

Clint felt his lips slide into a dark, dangerous smirk.

Brantley's eyes narrowed and he brought his hands up. He swung out with a right hook, but Clint wasn't in front of him anymore. He was spinning low to the ground, dragging his fingers through the dirt for balance as he moved around Brantley and came up behind him.

He drove his fists hard into the goon's exposed left kidney and then kicked out sharply with his boot into the back of his knee.

Brantley grunted as his leg gave out and he was forced down to one knee. He tried to turn and mount a defense, but Clint was already moving again. As Brantley turned, Clint spun into a round house. Brantley ended up turning right into Clint's swinging boot.

A man with bones any less dense than Brantley's would have ended up with a broken jaw. Instead, the large man just fell down to his hands and knees, taking barely a second to recover before he was launching himself up and straight at Clint. He was going to try and use his greater size and weight to his advantage.

Except, Clint was planning on using it to  _his_.

He crouched just as Brantley reached him and drove his shoulder hard into the man's solar plexus, driving the air out of his lungs. Brantley grunted and it took several seconds longer than it normally would have before he was able to suck in a sharp, pained breath. Clint took advantage of the extra seconds to use both hands to push the man back and then kicked out at his left thigh, deadening the nerves in the limb and sending Brantley crashing down to one knee.

Clint kicked high, aiming for Brantley's head again. The goon was ready though. He caught Clint's foot with a growl and held on. Clint went with it. He used Brantley's tight grip on his foot as leverage and spun the rest of his body into the air, bringing his other foot around and slamming the back of his heel into Brantley's temple.

He landed hard on his back as Brantley fell, but ignored the sharp ache of his many fresh bruises. He rolled immediately into a backwards somersault and landed in a runner's starting stance. He charged at Brantley just as the stunned man was gaining his feet.

He braced on foot on Brantley's right thigh and a hand on his right shoulder. He used the leverage to propel himself up and he twisted, spinning his body around behind Brantley's head. He hooked both his legs around either side of the man's neck and locked his ankles together tightly.

Then he threw his weight back and down, reaching to the ground with his hands.

This was going to be hard, because the man outweighed him by  _so_  much, but Clint knew it was possible.

Sure enough, just before Clint's hands hit the dirt, he felt Brantley's feet leave the ground. From there it was all core, leg, and back strength. Brantley's body arched backwards, over Clint's and slammed into the ground face first. Clint was left braced on his hands and his now stinging knees – they'd hit the ground with the same force Brantley had – but his goal had been accomplished.

Brantley was dead weight on the ground behind him.

Clint slowly kicked himself free and watched the other man closely, waiting to see if it was a trick. But Brantley didn't move. Just lay sprawled on the ground, breathing puffs of air into the dirt beneath his face.

Game. Set. Match.

* * *

"Hey!"

Clint kept his head low, the hood of his plain black sweatshirt pulled up over his head, and kept walking.

"Damn it, don't walk away from me, you asshole!"

Clint didn't break stride as he reached for the door to their bunkhouse. A hand slapped his away and another hand latched onto his bicep, yanking him around the building and back behind it, out of sight. Clint allowed the manhandling and stayed silent even as he was shoved – not all that gently – away from his assailant.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Clint turned and faced Boomer, who was pacing in a tight, angry line. He stuffed his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and didn't answer. Boomer rounded on him and pointed an accusing finger at his chest.

"You think I don't see what this is? You think I'm as blind as everyone else out there? That I'm just gonna stand on the sidelines and cheer like an idiot because at the end of it all, you won?"

Clint kept his expression blank as he met Boomer's angry green eyes.

"What exactly do you think this is?" He asked quietly.

Boomer answered almost before he could get the question out.

"You're punishing yourself."

Clint blinked and it wasn't Boomer yelling at him, it was Phil.

" _I've barely been able to touch you for the last week since we started training, now I've put you on the ground twice and hit you half a dozen times. What's going on?"_

" _Nothing." Clint snapped. "Let's just keep going."_

" _So you can keep punishing yourself?" Coulson shot back._

Clint shook his head and blinked again, Boomer was the one glaring at him across the darkness between them, not Phil. Phil wasn't here.

"You think I didn't see it, don't you?"

Clint frowned in confusion, wondering suddenly if Brantley had hit him harder than he thought.

"The smile, after that first hit…you were pushing yourself up and you were  _smiling_. What the  _hell_  is that?"

Clint felt his expression harden like a stone.

"It's none of your damn business."

Clint moved to push by him. He needed to call in to Phil, tell him about Ruiz and the job tomorrow. He didn't have time to deal with Boomer and his misplaced worry.

"You think you're the only one that hates what he's become?"

That stopped Clint dead in his tracks and he stood, stock still, with his back to Boomer – who, for all intents and purposes, had just admitted to walking the same road Clint did.

"You think you're the only one that looks around this place and wonder how the hell he ended up here? How the hell he ended up  _fitting_  in a place like this?"

Clint forced himself to turn, to face his teammate  _and_  the direction the conversation had taken.

"I was a fucking  _Marine_. I fought for something real."

Boomer's hands were clenched tightly at his sides and his body was wound tight and tense. Clint took a slow step closer.

"What happened?"

"I got offered a bigger paycheck and like a fucking asshole, I took it. Over a year later, here I am," he motioned around him at the compound. "Kidnapping fucking kids, fighting wars that aren't mine, killing people I've got no tie to."

Clint fought back a flinch at the reminder of the job they'd pulled last week. A high profile kidnapping to gain leverage for a militant party Ares had no loyalty to. But Ares didn't have loyalty to anything or anybody – except money. Clint had covered the snatch with a sniper rifle, making sure they weren't interrupted. He'd ended up having to put a round in the engine block of a police car, but other than that hadn't fired a shot. Boomer had been on the ground, setting explosives to disable the car the little girl had been in. The rest of the team did the snatching.

A fucking kid, just like Boomer had said. And they'd snatched her out of her car and probably scarred her for life. For what? Money.

"I saw you that night, after the job. I know it got to you too. You played like it didn't matter, but I sleep in the bunk next to you. I know it kept you up and that when you slept, you just had nightmares."

Clint  _did_  flinch this time. Nightmares had been plaguing him since he got here, but he'd thought he covered them fairly well. He rarely woke up with anything more than a gasp, though occasionally he brought a weapon up. He hadn't thought the rest of the team had caught on.

But Boomer was paying closer attention than he'd thought.

"Why are you here, Hawkeye?"

The question caught him off guard and Clint could only stare at him with wide eyes.

"I may not know you, but you don't belong in a place like this."

"You're wrong." Clint countered quietly. He fit in a place like this better than he'd ever fit anywhere else. Except for maybe at SHIELD…with Phil.

"You're different. You can deny it all you want, but I  _see_  it."

Clint shook his head in denial. Not just because he thought Boomer was wrong, but because he needed to dispel the idea that there was anything special about him. He couldn't let Boomer go on thinking that there was. He didn't need an ally here. He didn't need someone else getting mixed up in Clint's primary objective – Ruiz. Ruiz was dangerous and so was Cohen and so was everyone else within Ares. If there was _any_  suspicion that Boomer was involved when the dust settled, they'd kill him.

Clint couldn't risk that happening. So he'd do the only thing he could to make sure Boomer walked away from him and didn't look back.

"Or maybe you see what you want to see." Clint spat harshly. "Maybe  _you_ feel guilty about screwing up your life and turning on your country. But  _me_ , I don't give a fuck. I do what I do because I'm  _good_  at it, one of the best. I'm never going to stop because it's  _what I am_. I don't  _want_  to change." Something in his chest tightened as he spoke, some deep part of himself chilled and grew cold with the words. "Don't project your own regrets on me. I love what I do. I wasn't torn up about the kidnapping, I was disappointed. I'm a fucking sniper and all I got to shoot was an engine block. Talk about a letdown."

Boomer shook his head, unwilling to believe Clint's words.

"You think I pick those fights to punish myself? I do it because I  _enjoy_  it. I enjoy letting a guy think he's won and then putting him down  _hard_."

Boomer kept shaking his head.

"You're lying."

"I'm not." Clint snapped sharply. "You're weak, Boomer. You don't belong here and you're looking for sympathy. You're looking for an excuse to find a way out because you're too much of a coward to just walk away."

"Stop it." Boomer growled, taking a threatening step forward.

"You  _want_  me to be as weak as you are so you don't feel so alone, but I'm not weak, Boomer. Not like  _you_."

Fury lit Boomer's expression, but mixed in and buried beneath it was hurt, deep hurt. Clint steeled himself against it. He was doing this for Boomer's benefit – to protect him. When this was all over, he'd make sure SHIELD gave him a fair shake.

"You wanted to push me away, Hawk? Congratulations, you fucking succeeded. You can go screw yourself, I'm done."

Boomer knocked shoulders harshly with him as he stormed passed. Clint closed his eyes and blew out a slow breath, trying to push away the guilt already gnawing at him. It was better this way. It  _was_.

Clint repeated that to himself as he walked towards the perimeter fence. He needed to move, to find a way to burn off the sudden surge of adrenaline. He also needed to call Phil and walking the perimeter fence – so long as he avoided the patrols outside the fence – was a good place to do that.

"4-9-4-9-6-2-Delta-Zulu."

There was a brief pause and then Phil's voice filled the line.

" _Been a few days since you checked in."_

"I was busy." Clint snapped. He told himself firmly that he wasn't mad at Phil, he was mad at himself and if he wasn't careful, Phil was going to figure out something was wrong.

" _Okay."_  Phil's tone was wary now.  _"I thought you might like to know we recovered the kidnap victim. She was unharmed and has been returned, quietly, to her family."_

Clint nodded, but didn't answer. He just kept walking the perimeter, growing more frustrated as the activity did nothing to sooth the gnawing ache building inside him. The silence reigned for a few moments before Phil came back.

" _So did you fight tonight?"_

He'd told Phil about The Ring early on, even told him that he fought sometimes. But he hadn't been completely forthcoming about the extent of his involvement.

"No, not tonight." As if to punish him, his fresh bruises pulsed with pain and the untreated cuts and scrapes stung.

Phil was quiet again and when he spoke again his tone was very carefully non-argumentative.

" _Any word on Ruiz?"_

"He's coming in tomorrow. I'm part of the escort team."

" _Good. It's about time."_

"I'll find an opening and take him out as soon as possible."

" _An opening with a clean exit."_ Phil amended.  _"You don't need to rush this."_

Except Clint really felt like he  _did_. He felt like if he didn't finish this soon, he wasn't going to be able to pull himself back out of this dark hole he was slipping into. But he couldn't tell Phil that, couldn't worry him or risk him pulling him out early.

He had to do this. He had to finish it or it was all for nothing.

* * *

Phil stared at the screen that showed the activity of Clint's comm and pressed the headset harder against his ear. Something was wrong. He could hear it in every part of Clint's voice. There was an edge there that Phil hadn't heard in a very long time. It was the old Hawkeye, but not a fabricated version. Not a version that Clint was just wearing as a disguise – it was real. It was evidence that Clint was losing his grip.

"You hear me, don't rush it. Make sure you have a clean exit before you make a move."

" _I got it."_ Clint snapped sharply and Phil drew in a breath. He glanced around the room that he'd been practically living in the past two weeks. He'd only left to sleep, and even then, had kept the comm line tuned to a hand held radio so he would be there as soon as Clint called in. At the moment, the room was empty.

"Okay, honest answer, kid. How are you holding up?"

Sometimes straight forward and blunt worked best with Clint.

" _I'm fine."_ The reply was predictable and exactly what Phil was afraid of.

'I'm fine' was like a wailing alarm when it came to Clint. It was the phrase Clint used when he was anything  _but_  fine. Phil felt his worry spike.

"Clint…"

" _It's a fucking open line, Overwatch. Protocol 101."_

Phil actually flinched in surprise at the sharp, angry tone.

"Hawkeye," he corrected carefully, "you're worrying me, kid. You don't sound like yourself."

" _I sound exactly how you fucking wanted me to sound when you sent me in here. I'm doing what you wanted."_

Phil blew out a breath and tried again.

"Hawk, take a breath. This is me."

" _Yeah, and you're not_ _ **here**_ _, are you? You don't know how shit works in this place. I'm doing what I have to do to get the job done. The job_ _ **you**_ _sent me here to do."_

"Hawk…"

" _I don't need this tonight. I'll check in when I've taken out Ruiz."_

"Clint!"

" _Hawkeye out."_

Phil cursed when the line went dead and ripped the headset off. He threw it irritably down onto the desk and watched it skip off the keyboard and slam into the monitor before finally settling on the desk surface.

"I take it the conversation didn't go well?"

Phil glanced over his shoulder and watched Dan walk into the room, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. He held the cup out to Phil.

"I figured you could use the midday pick me up."

Phil nodded his thanks and set the mug on the desk.

"So…" Dan leaned his hip against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, "Barton?"

"He's…" Phil sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. "He's  _'fine.'_ "

Dan's eyebrow rose in response the bitter sarcasm in Phil's tone.

"Uh- _huh_ …cuz you usually throw things when Barton is 'fine.'"

Phil leaned back in his chair and rubbed at the tired muscles in his neck.

"'Fine' was his word, not mine."

"Ah…I see." Dan nodded slightly in understanding. "Barton 101 – 'fine' usually means the opposite, right?"

Phil nodded and sighed again.

"So is he hurt or something?" Dan asked casually.

Phil shrugged, his own helplessness in the situation suddenly weighing heavily on him.

"I don't know. I don't think so." Phil fixed his gaze on the monitor, silently willing Clint's comm to come back online. "He's not being very forthcoming."

Dan snorted.

"When is Barton  _ever_  forthcoming? Cagey is practically his native dialect."

Phil shook his head and felt his expression tighten as his worry continued to rise.

"This is different…this is worse."

Dan's expression sobered.

"What's going on, Phil?"

Phil clenched his jaw. There was a lot Dan didn't know about Clint – starting with what he did before SHIELD. Clint's past as a contract assassin was strictly need-to-know. And until this point, Dan didn't need to know. He  _still_  didn't, not unless Clint volunteered the information himself.

Of course that made talking to Dan about this a little trickier.

"It's the mission. It's…he's…" Phil thought back to Clint's tone – the dark, angry, dangerous tone. "He's slipping."

Dan frowned.

"Slipping?"

"This mission he's on, it's deep cover. He had to become something dark in order to make it work and now…" now he was worried that the old Hawkeye was more in control than Clint was, "now I'm worried he's losing track of what's part of his cover and what's real."

"Come on, Phil…this is Barton." Dan said it like that should make it all better. And most days, it would. Clint was strong, smart, and capable. Most days the last thing Phil would be worrying about was if Clint was staying grounded.

"Yeah…" Phil muttered noncommittally. Through no fault of his own, Dan just didn't get it. He didn't know the situation or the history behind it. All he knew was the Clint that had been his patient for the past ten months.

He didn't know the Clint that Phil knew.

"Trust him to do his job, Phil, and to be smart enough to keep himself focused."

Phil hadn't mustered a reply before Dan's pager started buzzing on his belt. He glanced down at it and sighed.

"I gotta go. Drink that coffee…or better yet, get some real sleep."

Phil waved an acknowledging hand at his friend and Dan trotted back out the door.

He wanted to do as Dan suggested. He wanted to trust Clint. And he did. He trusted  _Clint_  unwaveringly and without reservation…well, except maybe where his own well being was involved. But he trusted him to do his job no matter what.

The problem was, he didn't trust Hawkeye.

And he was pretty sure Hawkeye was the one he was dealing with.

* * *

"Todd, you got a second?"

Agent Todd Bryan looked up from the stack of forms on his desk and waved Phil into the room.

"What's up? Barton okay?"

Phil almost smiled. Todd had taken a shine to Clint almost from day one and had taken a personal interest in his training. He was one of the few people that Clint was actually comfortable around and he also happened to be one of the select few that knew Clint's history. Phil had read him in back in the early days of Clint's training, to help the trainer better understand what he was going to be dealing with.

And also what he needed to be wary of. It had been necessary for the safety of the other agents in training. Clint had been unpredictable back then – well, more unpredictable than he was now – and Fury had insisted they take every precaution to keep Clint contained.

"I'm not sure." Phil answered as he closed Todd's office door and braced his hands on the back of one of the chairs facing Todd's desk. "I just got off a call-in and he didn't sound…like himself."

Todd leaned back in his chair, his expression curious, but wary.

"What  _did_  he sound like?"

Phil sighed.

"He sounded like he did those first few weeks of training. He sounded like the kid I'd met in that alley in Vienna."

Todd blew out a breath and frowned.

"Back to his old self, then? Probably not a good thing."

Phil inclined his head in agreement.

"I'm worried about him."

Todd leaned forward in his chair and braced his elbows on his desk.

"He's on a deep cover assignment, right?"

Phil nodded.

"One where he  _needed_  to be his old self?"

Phil sighed and nodded again.

"So wouldn't it be worse if he  _didn't_  sound like he was playing the part?"

"Yeah, if it was really nothing but a 'part.' But it's not, Todd, you know that almost as well as I do. We didn't send him there to play a part. We sent him there to  _be_ Hawkeye, to be what he used to be."

"And you're worried he's forgetting that's not who he is anymore." Todd surmised knowingly. Phil wasn't surprised but the other agent's perceptiveness. Todd had been a field agent once up on a time. He knew how deep cover missions worked.

"I haven't heard him sound like that since the beginning, Todd."

Todd sighed and fiddled with the pen on his desk, tapping it and then flipping it around and tapping the other end.

"I get why you're worried, Phil, but you've got to remember that he's  _not_  the same kid you brought in over a year ago. If there is one thing I've learned about him it's that he is as strong as steel, in every way. That boy is damn near unshakable when he puts his mind to something. He's not going to go skipping merrily down some rabbit hole of darkness just because he spends a few weeks playing a part that's a little too familiar. If he's slipping, I guarantee you that he realizes it and he is fighting tooth and nail to hang on until he can finish this."

Phil nodded slowly, having to acknowledge the wisdom and truth of Todd's words. Clint probably  _did_  realize it and that knowledge very well may have been the source of the archer's short temper on the call. Clint had always been his own worst critic. He'd been angry at himself, not at Phil. Phil just hadn't seen it.

"If he says he's good, maybe he is…or at least as good as he can be. Maybe he's just doing what he needs to do so he can finish his job."

Phil rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

"Maybe you're right."

Maybe Clint was just doing what he had to do. Maybe he had a handle on the situation and was just frustrated at himself for whatever internal struggles he was facing. Maybe he wasn't slipping.

But as Phil bid Todd goodbye and headed to his room to grab a nap, one thought kept nagging at him. He knew Clint better than anybody. He knew most of the facets of his personality. He knew every tone of his voice. He knew how to read his eyes and what almost every facial expression meant. He  _knew_  Clint.

And he knew Clint was slipping.

* * *

Clint slid through the gathered crowd and came up next to the fighter's box on the outside edge of The Ring. There was only one fighter left inside it, which meant he'd made it just in time. Even more perfect, it was Martinez.

Clint leaned over the edge of the box and spoke lowly over Martinez's shoulder.

"You gonna pick another pansy-assed nobody tonight?"

Martinez's head snapped around and his nearly black eyes lit with annoyance.

"Beat it, Hawkeye."

"What?" Clint smirked darkly. "Did I hit a nerve? Come on, Martinez, everybody knows you're too much of a pussy to pick a real fighter. That's why you  _always_ choose someone weaker and smaller."

"Shut up."

"Or what?" Clint challenged, leaning lazily against the edge of the box. "You'll shut me up? We both know you're too much of a coward to pick a fighter like me. I'd be way too much of a challenge."

Martinez's glare grew colder and he opened his mouth to reply, but the fight inside The Ring ended and drew his attention. Clint waited until Martinez was called into The Ring to speak again.

"What's it gonna be, Martinez? You gonna pussy out again? Pad your stats so you can beat down some poor sap in the final fight?"

"Fuck you, Hawk." Martinez growled as he jumped into The Ring.

Clint pushed his way to the front of the crowd and waited. If he'd read Martinez right, and he was  _really_  good at reading people, the jackass was going to be all wound up and pissed off at him right about now. And with Clint already having fought tonight – and taken a beating during that fight – Martinez was probably seeing him as a pretty good target.

"Martinez, who are you challenging?" Cohen asked from his place on the platform.

Martinez looked right at Clint and glared.

"Hawkeye."

Clint smiled.

"He's already fought tonight." Cohen replied as his gaze shifted to Clint.

"Don't worry about it." Clint hopped into The Ring and pulled his hoodie off, tossing it on the wall and leaving him in his cargos and black t-shirt. It also left all his freshly acquired cuts, scrapes, and bruises in plain view.

He smirked across the arena floor to Martinez.

"I like a challenge."

* * *

End of Chapter 4

Ruiz is coming back! But Clint isn't in the best frame of mind right now, is he? Clint's a pretty scary dude when he wants to be. And poor Boomer! Thoughts? Was Clint snapping at Boomer only to push him away and protect him? Or is more of the old Hawkeye in control than Clint wants to admit? What do you guys think? Drop me a comment to share your thoughts!

Until tomorrow, let this preview intrigue you...

* * *

_He froze as everything slid into place with terrifying clarity._

_The traffic accident. A crowd milling around. It was the perfect cover to get close to a car. It was why he'd told them to stay alert, but with a crowd this thick it wouldn't be that hard to go unnoticed._

_And if you were going to take out a three-car convoy – you always took the lead car first._

_"Shit." Clint turned back and looked towards Andy._

_He met the tech's confused gaze just as Hummer exploded._


	5. I Rose Above The Noise And Confusion

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 4:_ **Isi7140, Evenstar129, immertreu, thiswilldrivemecrazy, Hamham2931, hgb**

_Special thanks to_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their amazing and awesome beta abilities!_

_And so we come to Chapter 5…_

* * *

_You have power over your mind - not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength._

_**Marcus Aurelius** _

* * *

Boomer hadn't been able to fall asleep. Hawkeye hadn't come back to the bunkhouse after their argument and none of the other guys knew where he'd disappeared to. Eventually, they'd all figured that if Hawkeye wanted to piss off Mathis by staying out late on the night before a job, then that was his business.

Everyone, even Mathis – who had spit fire for a while when no one knew where their youngest team member was – eventually went to sleep. But Boomer hadn't been able to join them. Instead, he was sitting like a pathetic piece of shit on a crate in front of their bunkhouse, molding and remolding a piece of C-4.

The cocky little bastard's comments had hit him hard and deep. Boomer had been  _so_  sure they were the same. That the kid struggled with the same regrets he did. He thought he'd finally found an ally in this world of liars and killers he was trapped in. But that guy that had spit venom at him an hour ago? That wasn't the archer that Boomer had gotten to know over the last two weeks, at least it wasn't the same version of him. That version had been darker, crueler than the Hawkeye he'd come to know.

Not that the kid was a ray of sunshine on a regular day. Most of the time the archer's mood  _was_  dark. If he wasn't stone-faced and unreadable, he was scowling. He didn't talk much and when he did it was usually biting sarcasm. He fought like there was something primal and lethal trying to claw its way out of him. He was a terrifying and dangerous.

But he still had those moments where all of that faded away, moments when Boomer could see a 19-year-old kid hiding out beneath all the other bullshit. But Hawkeye kept that part of himself fiercely guarded. Those rare moments where he let it slip, he was quick to cover it back up.

He didn't want the world to see the kid beneath the killer.

And God help him, Boomer  _got_  that. In this kind of life you  _had_  to be tough and unbreakable. You couldn't let the world see anything but your armor. He understood why Hawk was the way he was. He  _did_. Boomer was the same damn way.

But damn it, the archer hadn't just come out wearing armor earlier, he'd been wielding a poison-tipped blade. He'd  _wanted_  to hit where it would hurt. And Boomer wasn't anybody's chump. Hawkeye wanted to be a little bastard, he could have at it. Boomer was done.

And yet here he was, losing sleep and playing with plastic explosives.

Because no matter how pissed was, he saw something in that kid. Something that reminded him of how  _he'd_  been as a young, cocky Marine. He'd been a lot like Hawkeye on the surface back then, all anger, piss and vinegar. He hadn't pulled himself out of it. Instead, he'd just embraced it and let the personality fester. And years later, he accepted payment to betray his country.

He'd started down a path back then and nobody had bothered to tell him it was the wrong one.

He hated to think he had a chance to help someone walking that same path, and he didn't.

"Boomer."

His head shot up and his eyes searched the darkness. He released a breath when one of the guys from Delta Team stepped out of the shadows.

"Jesus, Denton, you trying to give me a heart attack?"

The other man rolled his eyes and motioned back the way he'd come.

"Thought you might like to know your team's under-aged Robin Hood just finished getting his ass handed to him by Martinez."

Boomer sat up straighter on the crate.

"What? Hawk already fought tonight."

"Yeah, well, he baited Martinez into challenging him. Cohen allowed it."

Boomer sighed and shook his head.

"Getting another win puts him in the lead."

Denton frowned.

"I don't think you're getting me, Boomer, your boy didn't win. He let Martinez beat his ass and smiled the whole damn time."

Boomer was off the crate before he realized he'd decided to move.

"He lost?"

Denton nodded.

"Fight wasn't even worth watching…and a lot of guys lost money betting on your boy to win."

Boomer started in the direction of The Ring.

"Where is he?"

"Last I saw he was still lying in the dirt near the wall. People were clearing out, but I heard some guys talking."

"They're pissed?"

"Like I said, people lost money."

Boomer cursed under his breath and moved into a jog. Denton didn't follow, but Boomer hadn't expected him to. It was more than expected that the other man had sought him out at all. He rounded a corner and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a lone figure leaning against the half wall, still inside The Ring.

The relief was short lived when he saw a group of guys headed that way.

He kicked up his pace and cut them off.

"Beat it, guys."

"That fight was a joke," a man Boomer recognized as Stitler growled. "That little shit practically threw it."

"He'd already fought once, you should have known better than to put money on him. Losing goes with the territory, Stitler. You can't win every time."

"I should have won that one."

Boomer put up a hand when the group advanced behind Stitler.

"Listen, guys, you know me. You know I don't pick a fight I can't win. And right now I've got enough plastic explosives and blasting caps on me to blow you all to kingdom come. Take one more step and I promise you I will shove this stuff where it won't come out."

Several of the men shifted and backed a step away. Stitler hesitated and then backed up too. Boomer swallowed and thanked his lucky stars that he'd accidentally blown something up his first day here. Not everybody thought he carried explosives around as toys.

"That little shit owes us."

"Like I said, Stitler, losing is the nature of betting. Next time make a better pick."

Finally, they turned and walked away. Boomer waited until they rounded the corner before turning back to Hawkeye, who'd made it to the other side of the wall now, and was just standing, leaning heavily against it.

Boomer blew out a breath and moved over to him.

"Heard you had an eventful night."

Hawkeye didn't turn, but did toss a narrow-eyed look over his shoulder.

"What're you doin' here?"

Boomer winced. The teen's voice was rough and gravely and a little bit slurred.

"I'm here to make sure you make it to the morning in one piece." Boomer shifted closer, hand hovering over the archer's back in case he started to go down.

"I'm fine." Hawkeye growled as he pushed back from the wall and tried to step away.

He wavered and would have gone down right there if Boomer hadn't slid up to his side and pulled the teen's arm over his shoulder.

"Yeah, you look fine."

"I don't need your help."

The stubborn little bastard actually tried to pull away, so Boomer just held on tighter.

"Too damn bad," he growled back and started pulling Hawkeye away from The Ring. "Cuz you're getting it."

After a long moment of stubborn, silent protest, Hawkeye gave in and started stumbling along with him instead of resisting.

"Where're we goin'?"

"To the medic."

Hawkeye threw all his weight back and dug his heels in.

"Jesus!" Boomer stumbled back and scrambled to keep both of them upright. "What the hell?"

"No medic."

"Hawk, you can barely stand up straight."

"They'll pull me off tomorrow's op."

"So what?" Boomer scowled. "There will be other ops."

"Ruiz wants me there. I'm going."

"You are the most stubborn, infuriating bastard I've ever met."

And Boomer had known  _a lot_  of stubborn, infuriating bastards.

Hawkeye sighed deeply.

"So I've been told."

Boomer steadied him when he wavered and gave up.

"So what? Sleep it off at the bunkhouse?"

Hawkeye shook his head.

"That shed on the corner of the east fence. Its padlock is broken and no one goes there."

"You want to sleep…in a shed?"

"I'm not giving Mathis or MacCabe any ammunition against me."

"You're being ridiculous." Boomer reached to rub his forehead against the sudden headache that was forming there. He had a feeling Hawkeye tended to cause similar reactions in most of the people he knew.

"You don't want to help me? Fine. I'll get there myself."

Hawk tried to pull away again, though there wasn't much strength in the action.

"Have I mentioned you're the most stubborn, infuriating bastard I've ever met?" Boomer made sure his grip on the teen was solid and started moving them in the direction of the shed. Hawkeye sagged against him, as if the fight had just drained out of him.

"Yeah…it's been said."

And then abruptly, the archer was dead weight against his side. Boomer grunted under the sudden change and shifted his grip.

"Asshole. Figures you'd make me do all the work."

* * *

When Clint woke, it was to darkness.

"You with me?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden voice to his left.

"Whoa, easy…it's just me."

'Me' sounded a lot like Boomer.

Clint groaned his way into a sitting position and glanced across the small dark…shed? Boomer was sitting cross legged against the door, staring at him. It took longer than it should have, but the pieces clicked back into place and Clint remembered how his night had progressed.

"How long was I out?"

Boomer stood and moved towards him, flashlight in hand.

"Maybe fifteen minutes. I'm gonna check you for a concussion, make sure you didn't break anything in that idiotic head of yours."

Clint nodded and eased his way to the wall, collapsing against it. Boomer checked his pupils for reaction to the flashlight quickly and efficiently and then muttered that he had a 'fucking hard head' before retreating to the door again to sit.

Clint sighed against the wall. Everything ached. He eased his head back and let it rest against the wall. That bout with Martinez had been punishing, but god  _damn_  it had felt good.

After his fight with Boomer – the memory of his bitter scathing words nearly had him apologizing right there – and then his argument with Phil, he'd needed release. He'd started this job walking a line, and now he felt like he was miles past it.

He wasn't sure when it had happened, if had been gradual or sudden, but Clint was sure of one thing. He was as much the old Hawkeye now as he had been seventeen months ago. Phil had said he didn't sound like himself, but he was wrong. Clint sounded more like his  _real_  self now than he had in over a year.

He could clean himself up – try and walk the straight and narrow – but at the end of the day this darkness, it was still inside him. The angry, bitter things that had made him who he was were still part of him. He hadn't left this version of Hawkeye behind, he'd just covered him up – buried him and tried to forget.

It felt wrong, like he was  _doing_  wrong. But at the same time it felt like it fit, better than anything else ever had or ever would.

He  _was_  this Hawkeye and he couldn't escape it, maybe he never really had. And the hate that had filled him in those dark days was back. He hated  _himself_  because this was all he'd ever be. He was too weak be better.

He'd tried – with SHIELD and with Phil – but he'd failed. He'd fallen right back down the rabbit hole the first chance he got. And now…he was just so goddamned _tired_. He was sick of trying to be something different.

Phil was going to be so disappointed…

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

The quiet, weary question drew him out of his dark, spiraling thoughts and brought his focus back to his present company.

Boomer had yelled at him earlier that night, called him out on his bullshit and Clint had thrown it back in his face with spite and cruelty. And yet, here the man was. And he looked so tired and confused. He looked like Phil always looked when faced with Clint's propensity for self-punishment without knowing the cause – he looked like he just wanted to  _understand_.

He owed him  _something_. And he was tired – so tired – of feeling like he was so fucking alone.

"Sometimes," he kept his voice low and let his gaze fall on Boomer's, "I just want to feel something different."

"Different than what?" Boomer's voice stayed quiet, almost soothing as he held Clint's gaze and waited.

"Just  _different_ ," Clint sighed. "Who I am, man, the person I am deep at my core…it's not good. I am  _nothing_  but darkness and anger and hate. And sometimes I would do anything just to feel something else. I'd do anything to make it better."

"And getting your ass kicked makes it better?" Boomer's tone was confused, but patient.

"It makes it all go away." Clint admitted. It was mostly true. He took those beatings because in a way, he felt like it evened the score, if only for a few minutes. For just a little while, while he was taking the punishment, it felt like his slate was wiped clean and he could forget who he really was.

"You can't live like that, Hawk. One day you're gonna pick a fight you can't walk away from."

"Maybe." Clint sighed, but he doubted it even as he said it.

"Why do I get the feeling that you might be hoping that happens?"

Clint met Boomer's eyes again. Boomer probably got that feeling because part of him  _did_  hope for that. But a bigger, stronger part of him knew a different truth.

"It won't."

Because above all else, Clint would always survive whether he wanted to or not.

* * *

Clint scowled out the passenger seat window of the black Hummer he was riding in. Andy was in the driver's seat next to him, bopping his head enthusiastically with some local music station. Clint shrugged deeper into the hood of his sweatshirt and tried to tune the music out.

"Looks like you had a long night, man." Andy abruptly stated as he turned down the music.

Clint rolled his head across the seat to glare at his teammate. Most people could read a glare like that and know to shut up before  _Clint_  shut them up. But Andy wasn't most people and he was rarely intimidated by glares, no matter who they came from.

"Boomer was sulking like a beaten dog when he came back last night, did you two have a lover's spat?"

"Andy?" Clint waited until the tech met his eyes. "Shut the _fuck_  up."

The edge in Clint's voice must have done its job, because Andy snapped his mouth closed and put his eyes back on the road ahead of him. Clint turned his head back to the passenger window and resumed his glaring at the scenery.

He'd fallen asleep sometime after his too-honest talk with Boomer, feeling nothing but hopeless, like his chances of coming back from this had all but dwindled away.

His wake-up call had been rough. Boomer had either stayed with him in the shed or come back early enough to wake him. He'd roughly shaken his still-booted foot until Clint had come up swinging, long-since-warmed ice packs – he wasn't sure where those had come from – falling to the ground around him. Boomer had quietly told him to take it easy and informed him they were leaving in twenty minutes and that the bunkhouse was empty. The explosives expert had then pulled him to his feet and the full impact of two punishing fights hit Clint like a freight train.

He'd hurt  _everywhere_. The walk back to the bunkhouse had been brutal. Then he had to spend most of the remaining time before they left scrubbing at the dried blood on his face. He'd gritted his teeth and swore his way into a fresh t-shirt and then back into his hoodie. He'd made it out to the cars in time to find out he'd been stuck in the lead car with Andy. Boomer was riding in the rear car with Reyes. MacCabe, Mathis, and Cohen were in the middle car.

Clint thought taking an entire caravan to pick up  _one_  guy who  _might_  have someone trailing him was a bit excessive. But it wasn't exactly his call to make.

Boomer had tossed him a sympathetic look as they headed towards their respective vehicles and for some reason it had pissed him off. He had gone to  _extreme_  lengths to get Boomer to leave him be and now, after a moment of weakness and confession, the man was latching back on.

It was Clint's own fault. He should have just kept his mouth shut last night in the shed. But he'd been so damned tired of going it alone. What he'd really wanted –  _needed_  – was Phil. But Phil wasn't here and that became more painfully apparent with every passing moment. Clint was on his own and he was losing his footing fast. Boomer had been there – a friendly ear that genuinely seemed to care what happened to him. And Clint had caved.

And now Boomer was at risk of being caught up in Clint's mission  _again_.

It pissed him off.

And Andy, with his taste for local music and tendency to randomly sing along, was grinding on his last nerve. It didn't help that he'd missed breakfast and his blood sugar was probably dropping by the second. He passed the time memorizing the way back to the city, this time he calculated their speed and was fairly confident he could pinpoint it on a map.

When they finally made it to the air strip, Clint was ready to rip the radio out of the Hummer and shove it down Andy's throat. He thought it showed remarkable self-restraint that instead all he did was slam the door.

"Hawkeye, a word."

Clint swore under his breath as he finished strapping his quiver into place and moved away from the group after Mathis, who was looking superior. He must have been gearing up the whole ride for this, and Clint was at the absolute fucking end of his patience with  _everything._

"My orders last night were clear. You were to rest up and prepare for this mission."

Clint blinked calmly at him and remained silent.

"Instead, you fought in The Ring, not  _once_ , but twice. I will not stand for acts of such insubordination on this team. When I give an order, I expect—"

Clint held up a hand.

"Let me just stop you right there."

Clint felt dark anger well inside him, coming swiftly and smoothly and meeting no resistance. It was familiar and not entirely unwelcome given he was done with  _all_ this shit. He was just fucking  _done_. Done pretending. Done playing 'team'. Done acting like he gave two shits about what Mathis or anybody else here thought. He was  _Hawkeye_  – he didn't play well with others and it was time to let that be fucking known.

"I'm not your fucking underling. This isn't the military and you aren't my goddamned CO. You're a fucking 'team leader,'" he made sure to throw up sarcastic air quotes for proper emphasis, "on a  _team_  that I'm just passing through. So I don't give a flying  _fuck_  what your orders were. I'm here and I've got a job to do. So why don't you stop spitting piss like you have anything to say that  _matters_ to me and go do  _your_  fucking job. I've got a perimeter to clear."

With that he turned and stalked away, pulling his bowstring over his head to settle his bow against his back.

"Hawkeye! Get the fuck back here!"

Clint turned enough to clearly show his left middle finger as he pointed it towards the sky and then continued walking. It wasn't until he got to the perimeter of the air strip and started walking it, that he realized his hands were shaking.

"Shit." He clenched his hands into fists and walked until he knew he was obscured by a hangar building. Then he turned and curled his fingers around the chain-link fence and pressed his forehead against the cool metal.

He wasn't just slipping anymore. He was in free fall. Something had snapped in that confrontation with Mathis. All he could feel was bone deep, dark, lethal  _anger_. It was bubbling up from some deep, hidden place inside him and washing through his veins like liquid fire. He tightened his fingers around the chain links and embraced the pain as the thin metal dug into his skin.

He clawed at the anger, trying to beat it back to where he had kept it in at least relative submission for the past two weeks. He hadn't let that anger really gain a foothold since before the Andes. He'd kept it buried deep where he kept the rest of what made him the worst version of Hawkeye.

He'd had to let it out to pull this off. He'd had to open the box he'd kept that version of himself locked in. Now that box wasn't just open, it was blown to pieces. And the worst part was – he didn't even care. He was almost  _glad_  that he didn't have to fight it anymore.

And that fucking terrified him.

"4-9-4-9-6-2-Delta-Zulu." He said his ID in a rush, suddenly desperate.

He needed to hear Phil's voice. He needed his handler to throw him a life line before he decided he didn't want one anymore. The time it took for Phil to answer felt like centuries when it had probably only been a few seconds.

" _Hawk?"_

Just hearing Phil's voice ignited something warm in his chest.

"Phil, I…" he clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead harder against the chain link.

There was a slight pause and then Phil was back, his tone deep with concern.

" _Clint, talk to me."_

"I'm losing it, Phil…I'm not…I can't," he groaned in frustration and forced himself to take a breath. "I can't do this." He wasn't talking about the mission. He could kill Ruiz – that part was going to be easy. He couldn't fight his way back. He couldn't break free of who he was, not again. It was too late.

Admitting it out loud felt like stabbing himself in the stomach. Clint hated to fail. He  _hated_ it. Worse than that, he'd let Phil down. Phil, who had believed so firmly that Clint could do this. That he was  _strong enough_ to do this. But he wasn't strong – Clint had always been weak.

" _Clint, listen to me."_ Phil's voice was firm, but undeniably warm. " _You're not losing it."_

Clint shook his head. Phil didn't get it.

"You don't know, Phil. I haven't told you –"

" _It doesn't matter what you've told me,"_ Phil interrupted sharply.  _"If you were losing it, we wouldn't be having this conversation. If you were losing it, you'd be ripping that molar out yourself and breaking all contact with me. You're not losing it."_

Clint drew in a deep breath and stepped back a little from the fence. He kept his hands wrapped in the chain link, but let his head hang down between his arms now instead of pressing it to the fence.

" _You caught yourself, Clint."_ Phil sounded almost  _proud_. Then he sighed and when he spoke again he sounded disappointed, but not in Clint, in himself.  _"I should have trusted that you'd be able to do that. I knew you were strong enough."_

Clint shook his head wearily.

"But you were wrong."

" _I wasn't wrong."_

"But…"

" _Clint…you slipped. It happens to operatives in deep cover all the time. What_ _ **matters**_ _is that you realized it and you're setting yourself right."_

"I didn't slip, Phil. I fucking fell. Who I am right now, what I've been doing, how I've been feeling…you wouldn't want to know me like this."

" _But I_ _ **did**_ _know you like that, remember? And you fought your way out of it then, you'll do it now."_

Clint shook his head. He was tired of fighting.

"I don't think I can do this anymore." He admitted quietly.

He wasn't sure what made him say it. He wasn't a quitter – hell, he considered 'quit' one of the worst four-letter words out there. He wasn't even sure what he meant by it. He wasn't sure if he couldn't do this mission anymore…or if he couldn't fight his nature anymore.

There was a long pause and when Phil spoke again there was a strain in his voice that Clint didn't understand.

" _Yes, you can."_ Then Phil's voice hardened.  _"Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once."_

Clint swallowed and waited obediently.

" _You are Clint fucking Barton. Your future is defined by what you do_ _ **now**_ _, not what you've done in the past. If you want to give up on everything you've been working for – if you want to throw away the life you were building here – if that's what you want – then_ _ **go**_ _. Walk away right now and don't waste anymore of my time._

" _ **But**_ _…if you're willing to keep fighting, if you're willing to keep moving forward - if you're willing to keep building a legacy of a Hawkeye that_ _ **isn't**_ _shadowed in darkness, then I promise to fight right next to you every step of the way. But_ _ **you**_ _have to make the choice. You have to decide if it's worth fighting for."_

Clint closed his eyes as Phil's words reverberated through him.

" _But don't make this choice about 'weakness.' You are not and have never been_ _ **weak**_ _. Don't use that as a crutch or an excuse."_

Phil was always telling him he was strong – that he wasn't weak. He'd been telling him that for well over a year.

Clint looked back on his year as a contract assassin and saw nothing but a dark, angry, weak kid that hadn't found another way. Phil looked back and saw something else, something Clint had never been able to see. He saw a strength that Clint could never quite believe he really had.

Clint blew out a slow, controlled breath.

They said only the strong survived and if Clint was ever anything, he was a fucking  _survivor_. It was time for him to suck it up and just put his shit on the shelf.

He wanted to be as strong as Phil believed he was.

He would do whatever it took not to let him down – even if it meant fighting right now…even though it felt like he couldn't win.

"Ruiz will be here any minute."

Phil was quiet for a moment, processing his words, taking them for what they were – an agreement to keep going. Then he answered, his voice just as calm and warm as ever.

" _Find an opening with a clean exit and end this so you can come home."_

Clint nodded even though Phil couldn't see him.

He didn't want to close the line. He didn't want to cut himself off from Phil again. Phil was his anchor – it was more obvious now than it had ever been. Phil was his reason to keep fighting because fighting for himself just wasn't enough.

He needed Phil  _here_.

" _I'm going to stay right here with you, kid. Just leave the line open. I'll be here."_

Something in Clint's chest tightened painfully and his throat suddenly felt raw.

"Okay," was all he managed to choke out.

" _Okay."_ Phil's voice was nothing but warmth before shifting back to business. " _Now what are you supposed to be doing?"_

Clint took a breath to refocus himself.

"Clearing the perimeter."

" _Then get to it. I'm going to go quiet so I don't distract you, but I'll still be here. I'm not going anywhere."_

Clint nodded and swallowed thickly and finally pushed away from the fence.

He had a job to do.

* * *

When Ruiz stepped off the plane onto the tarmac, Clint was a little surprised. The man smiled a wide, friendly smile as he greeted Cohen and then his eyes  _literally_  lit up when he saw Clint and his team. On first glance, he wasn't at all what Clint expected a ruthless, murdering soldier of fortune to look like.

But as Ruiz drew closer, Clint saw what he hadn't seen at a distance.

Damon Ruiz had ice in his veins. His eyes were dark, dangerous pits of black. And even though he smiled, there was a ruthlessness lingering in his expression. It was what Clint would expect it to feel like if a wild, vicious wolf smiled at him – right before it killed him. This man was everything SHIELD thought he was and worse, Clint was sure of it.

"You must be Hawkeye." Ruiz extended a hand towards Clint and every part of him wanted to withdraw from the touch. Instead, he met Ruiz's hand with his own and shook it firmly.

"And you're Ruiz."

Ruiz smiled a chilling smile and nodded.

"I've heard a lot about you, my friend."

Clint bristled at the familiar endearment and felt his own expression harden to match the ice of Ruiz's.

"Really? I'd never heard of you or your merry band of misfits until your sidekick over there," he jerked his chin at Cohen, "shanghaied me."

Ruiz's smile turned brittle and his eyes lit with annoyance at the insult.

"I suppose our anonymity has worked a little too well."

"Yeah," Clint slid the corner of his mouth up sarcastically, "we'll go with that."

Ruiz's expression stayed cold for another long moment as he assessed Clint and then his lips quirked into an admiring smile.

"You are  _just_  as I imagined you'd be. I was very pleased to hear you'd joined our ranks."

"Don't go throwing me a parade just yet. I'm just passing through."

"And how many of the men in Ares do you think were 'just passing through?'" Ruiz smiled darkly.

Clint thought suddenly of Boomer's late-night confession and had to resist the urge to look at him.

"I see you've dabbled in our nightly entertainment." Ruiz indicated the cuts and bruises on Clint's face and the abrasions on his knuckles.

"I've got a lot of aggression." Clint smiled wolfishly – hoping to communicate to Ruiz that he wasn't here to play nice and that this attempt at pleasantries was wearing thin.

Ruiz nodded, something akin to understanding flickering through his gaze and finally started towards the Hummers.

"We'll talk more when we get back to the compound. I'm sure you've many stories to share, Hawkeye."

Clint rolled his eyes and moved towards the lead car, pulling his bow off his back as he went. Andy was already climbing into the driver's seat.

"Why can't I drive, man?" Clint scowled as he slammed the passenger door closed behind him.

"Seniority, Hawk. Besides, I wouldn't trust you not to get us lost."

Clint shrugged his quiver off his back and placed it on the floorboards between his legs. He let his bow rest across his lap, yanked his hood up over his head, and then dug in the center console until he found a pair of sunglasses someone had left and sliding them up over his nose.

He turned his gaze out the window just as Andy reached for the radio.

"Touch that control and I'll cut off your fucking hand."

He said it without turning his head away from the window, but the music didn't turn on so he assumed Andy heeded his warning. His head was already pounding from both lack of food and the beating he'd taken last night. He just wanted some quiet so he could think.

It was time to make a plan.

* * *

"Aw, what the fuuuuck!" Andy slammed his hand on the horn as he was forced to lay hard on the brakes to avoid slamming into the back of the car in front of them.

Clint was already sitting up straighter in his seat, trying to see around the line of cars in front of them to the source of the problem.

" _What's the holdup?"_  Mathis's voice came over the radio mounted on the dashboard.

Clint reached for the microphone. He pressed the talk button and spoke.

"Some sort of jam up ahead. I'll go check it out. Stay alert in case it's staged."

Clint tossed the microphone at Andy and the tech caught it easily. In turn, he reached into the console and pulled out a hand-held radio and keyed it on, tossing it to Clint.

"Keep your eyes on my six," Clint ordered as he pushed his door open. He laid his bow across the seat and dropped his hand to rest on the butt of the Desert Eagle he had strapped to his thigh. He didn't want to risk drawing attention with something as ostentatious as his bow.

"I gotcha, Hawk." Andy nodded, his expression grim.

Clint slammed the door closed and headed away from their caravan of Hummers.

" _What's going on?"_

Phil had kept his promise to stay quiet, but Clint figured he'd heard him volunteer to check out the jam and was assuming Clint was now alone.

"Some sort of traffic hold up, I'm checking it out."

" _Eyes open, could be a trap."_

"Yeah." Clint agreed quietly as he quickly and silently moved through the mess of cars up towards the source, all the while scanning the area with his eyes.

In the end, it was a three-car traffic accident. It was already getting cleared up by the time Clint got to where he could see it clearly.

Clint keyed his hand held.

"Accident's already being cleared – but stay alert until we're moving again. I'm heading back."

" _Copy that."_  Mathis confirmed he'd been heard.

He retraced his steps through the cars back to the Hummers.

"Overwatch, I'm going to take Ruiz as soon as we get clear of the city. I've only got one guy in my car. I'll put him down and control a crash. When the rest come to investigate, I'll deal with them and then take out Ruiz. I can steal one of the Hummers to get back into the city then ditch it and head for the safe house."

" _Copy that, Hawk. I'll be waiting."_

Clint nodded slightly to himself and continued moving. It would be tough taking down his entire team  _and_  Cohen, but he had the element of surprise on his side. Plus his bow. He didn't want to kill anybody but Ruiz, but if they started shooting, so would he.

He finally made it back to the lead Hummer and reached for the door handle.

He froze as something tingled up the back of his neck. Call it a sixth sense, but he suddenly knew something wasn't right. He stepped back from the door and scanned the people milling around, several of them returning to their abandon cars, even more just walking the streets like it was a normal day.

" _Hawk, what's the hold up?"_  Mathis growled over the radio.

The feeling that something was  _very_  wrong grew stronger and Clint moved farther away from the Hummer, scanning every inch of the area around them. He froze when he saw a boot sticking out of a shadowed corner just inside a nearby alley. Brow furrowing curiously, he moved towards the boot. The alley was at least a car length back the way they'd come, but Clint didn't head straight for it. He headed toward the building wall directly ahead of him instead and kept the alley on his right.

He didn't want to spook whoever was hiding there, he just wanted a better look.

The angle of the shadow changed as Clint moved and then he could see more than a boot. He could see a pant leg, a torso, and a hand holding a small device.

He froze as everything slid into place with terrifying clarity.

The traffic accident. A crowd milling around. It was the perfect cover to get close to a car. It was why he'd told them to stay alert, but with a crowd this thick it wouldn't be that hard to go unnoticed.

And if you were going to take out a three-car convoy – you always took the lead car first.

"Shit." Clint turned back and looked towards Andy.

He met the tech's confused gaze just as Hummer exploded.

The force of the blast hit Clint like a wall – a wall of flaming hot air – and threw him backwards. His shoulder hit first, slamming into a  _real_  wall and the rest of his body followed. His head snapped back last, hitting the brick with enough force to slam his teeth together painfully and send him into darkness.

* * *

" _Shit."_

Phil frowned at the sudden hissed word and reached to press the headset harder against his ear. Then loud, screeching feedback burst through the line for a long moment before it died completely. Phil stood so fast from his chair that he sent it toppling backwards. Something had happened. Something had just gone wrong.

The other three men in the Operational Command Room all looked up from their various stations in surprise.

"CLINT!" Phil shouted into the comm, but there was no response. The line was completely dead.

"What's going o–" one of the other agents started to ask, but Phil cut him off.

"Get me Cairo news on the monitors!" He ordered sharply as he ripped the headset off and threw it down on the desk. "And somebody go find Fury!"

One of the men ran out of the room and Phil turned to the large flat screen monitors mounted on the wall. He watched as the screens all started to come to life, broadcasting Cairo's various news channels.

"There!" He snapped and pointed at one of the screens that flickered and then started broadcasting an emergency report banner across the screen. "Give me sound!"

Almost immediately sound started broadcasting through the room.

Phil's Egyptian Arabic was rusty, but he could translate well enough.

A car explosion in the north part of the city. Reports of casualties were already coming in. There was no footage yet, but they had someone en route to the scene now.

Phil reached for the edge of the nearest desk for support.

A car bomb.

_Clint._

* * *

" _Barton!"_

_Clint was drifting. There was no pain here, no more fever, no more blood and infection. His jaw didn't hurt from losing his molar. He wasn't afraid anymore. He wasn't in the cold, damp cell. He was just…floating…safe…_

" _Goddamn it, Clint! Wake up!"_

_The command rebounded through his weary mind and shook him down to his core. That voice was familiar. That voice was important. He struggled against the current trying to pull him farther away. He fought and strained to claw his way back to reality. To that voice._

_Finally he found purchase on solid ground and was able to force his heavy eyes open, if only a sliver._

_There was a shadowy, blurry figure hovering over him, holding his jaw and staring down at him. The figure was familiar, so familiar._

" _Thank god."_

_Phil._

" _Stay with me, Clint."_

_Clint tried to reply, but couldn't force his voice to cooperate._

" _Stay with me."_

_Clint frowned. Phil's voice was wrong – it wasn't Phil anymore, but yet…it was._

"Stay with me!"

Phil's face blurred dizzyingly and another replaced it.

"Hawk! Stay with me, dammit! Can you hear me?"

Boomer. Boomer was crouched next to him. Clint forced his eyes open farther and tried to look around.

"Don't move, man, you hit that wall hard. Just lie still."

Wall? What wall? Clint closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness.

"Hey now, keep your eyes open, Hawk. Come on now, don't check out on me."

Clint swallowed thickly and pried his eyes open again.

Boomer's worried green eyes were bouncing around in front of him. But that didn't make sense because Boomer wasn't exactly a bouncy person. It must be him doing the bouncing, or his vision at least.

 _Shit_.  _What the hell had happened?_

It was then that Clint realized he was half propped against a brick wall. His shoulder throbbed and his back ached, but most of all his head was  _killing_  him. Not just a part of it either. From the tip of his head down to his jaw, was literally throbbing with pain.

He lifted his hand to the back of head, wincing when his fingers hit torn flesh and the slickness of warm blood.

"Stop that." Boomer scowled, pulling his hand away.

"Wha' 'app'ned?" Clint closed his eyes again when his vision swam.

"The fucking car exploded. The shockwave sent you into the wall."

Boomer looked over his shoulder while Clint tried to comprehend that new information. When Boomer looked back at him, his gaze was pensive and worried.

"Ruiz put down the guy that triggered it before he could trigger the others. Hawk," Boomer waited for Clint to focus on him, "how did you know the car was gonna blow?"

Clint frowned in confusion.

"Wha…"

Boomer suddenly shifted, shoved out of the way, and another face appeared. All the movement had Clint swallowing against a sudden wave of nausea.

"What the hell did you do? Who are you?" Ruiz's voice reverberated through his aching head, the volume making him wince. Hands wrapped around his t-shirt and pulled him sharply upwards, Clint managed to get his own hands around the wrists holding him and it was the only thing that kept him from being dead weight.

"Easy!" That was Boomer, somewhere to his left.

Clint's back suddenly hit the brick wall hard and it was only instinct that kept his chin tucked low so that his head didn't follow.

"Open your eyes and look at me, you little shit!"

Clint forced his eyes open and sucked in a shallow breath when Ruiz's face wavered in front of him.

"You knew the car was going to blow. Who are you working for?"

Clint shook his head weakly and swallowed again. Ruiz shook him sharply and Clint's knees gave out, it was only Ruiz's grip on him that kept him upright.

"We need to get off the street." Clint thought that might have been Cohen, but his focus was wavering and he was having to divert most of his concentration to staying conscious and not hurling.

Ruiz growled an acknowledgment and leaned close to Clint.

"It was a mistake to try and fuck with me."

With one final shove against the wall, Ruiz released him. Clint dropped immediately, hitting his hands and knees hard and promptly throwing up what felt like a kidney.

"Get him in the car. We'll get our answers back at the compound. Cohen, stay and deal with this."

Clint wasn't sure what 'this' was and at the moment he didn't care. All that mattered was the pounding of his head and the aching of his body.

An arm wrapped around his waist and a hand around his bicep. He was hauled bodily off the ground and propelled towards the two remaining Hummers.

"Just take it easy, kid." Boomer's voice drifted over him as he stumbled along and tried to keep from falling on his face.

He lost some time and the next thing he knew he was being lain out across the back of one of the Hummers.

"Get us the hell out of here before the reporters show." Boomer snapped at whoever was in the driver's seat. Clint tried to look and see who it was, but black was fading in on the edges of his vision. It didn't take long for it to take over completely.

* * *

Nick Fury didn't get called in to deal with active missions unless something went truly, horribly wrong. He had more complex, more important concerns than the day-to-day operations within the organization. All the highest profile team operations went through Phil Coulson and the more mundane were handled by various assigned operational leaders. If an agent was operating alone, he had a handler. Other than that, the rest of the New York bases' operations were run by the different department directors. That, mercifully, left Nick to deal with SHIELD's more global concerns without having to worry about the base he called home.

So when a knock came at the door to his quarters at just a shade before 02.00, he'd known something somewhere had gone wrong.

He'd pulled on a pair of pants and a black t-shirt and pulled open his door.

Operational Assistant Rick Maramac was breathing hard and didn't even give Nick a chance to ask what the hell was wrong before he blurted out the last two words Nick expected to hear.

"It's Barton."

Barton wasn't one of the ones he worried about. The kid was almost everything you could ask for in an operative – with the exception of his perpetual attitude. Fury had set up Barton's current mission knowing there would be no better operative to carry it out. He'd assigned it, Phil had agreed and Nick had barely given it another thought.

Two words.

" _It's Barton."_

And everything changed.

Boots had been stepped hastily into, laces sloppily tied. Then he'd been trotting down the hall after Maramac wondering why on earth his chest was tightening and his hands clenching. He didn't know why the thought of losing Barton struck a deep, previously unknown, chord of fear in him, but it did. Barton was the best asset they'd brought in in decades. He was a cut above the rest.

And he was Phil's.

Maramac filled him in as best he could as they moved quickly through the base. Unfortunately, the operational assistant had been sent to fetch Fury almost immediately, so he didn't know much. The only confirmed fact was that Barton's comm had gone out unexpectedly and they'd been bringing up the Cairo news.

It didn't do much to prepare Nick for what to expect when he walked into the Operational Command Room.

Phil was shouting out orders to two techs that looked like they'd just arrived.

"Track his last known location."

"The comm is completely offline…" one of the techs replied as he typed quickly on his laptop.

"I know that!" Phil snapped sharply. "I need his  _last_  location, not his current one."

"I don't know if…"

"Can you track his last location or not?" Phil barked, towering menacingly over the tech where he was hunched over his laptop.

"I can try, we built that comm to be untraceable! That means that if you don't know the exact frequency, you can't see it."

"But you  _know_  the frequency." Phil countered.

"Yes! But that frequency is  _dead_! I can't track something that's not there! I  _might_  be able to find its echo, but that will give us a general location at best."

"Do it and get me a satellite on that bomb site."

"Coulson," Fury called for his agent's attention calmly. Phil whirled and stared at him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth for a moment. "What's the situation?" Fury demanded before Phil could spend too long dwelling on the impact of what was happening.

"Cl- Barton's comm went out and we've got reports of a car bomb coming through the local news."

"Is there any reason to believe he was in that area?"

Phil sighed.

"Knowing how Clint thinks, if he was plotting a path to get through the city quickly and in such a way that he couldn't get penned in, yes…it's possible."

Fury nodded calmly and turned to look at the monitors, taking in each news broadcast in turn.

"Have we got eyes on the bomb site yet?"

"I'm working on it." A tech announced without breaking pace on his keyboard.

"The local news hasn't arrived on scene yet, but early reports say there were people in the car that blew."

Fury nodded patiently and they waited, in silence, for the situation to develop. Unfortunately, re-tasking a satellite took time, and in the end, the news crews got there first.

"Blow up screen 3." Coulson tossed the order over his shoulder and a moment later all six monitors showed one picture. It was the shaky type of picture that came with live filming, but it was clear enough.

What used to be a black Hummer was nothing but a smoldering metal frame with shrapnel lying in heaps around it. In it, they could clearly see two black masses, about where the driver and passenger seat would be.

Fury heard Phil draw in a sharp breath, but otherwise he made no sound as they watched.

The local police prevented the camera crew from getting much closer, but the cameraman was able to zoom in and pan over the charred remains of the SUV's passengers.

There, sitting next to the body in the passenger seat, was what looked like the charred remains of a recurved bow. Next to Nick, Phil staggered, catching his balance after a step, but suddenly looking ten shades paler.

"I've got satellite." One of the techs announced quietly.

"Put it up and take us in as close as you can." Fury commanded steadily.

They stood in silence again as the tech worked. The picture on the screen changed angle and suddenly they were looking at the site from above. The picture zoomed in quickly and focused again on the passenger side.

There were the remains of a quiver on the floorboards.

"It's not him." Phil whispered under his breath, almost too quietly to be heard. Nick figured Phil was trying to convince himself, not anyone else.

"I've got the frequency echo…I can't tell you exactly where it was last active, but I can give you a hundred-foot radius."

"That's accurate enough, where was it?" Nick asked, unable to take his eyes off the grisly scene in front of them.

"It was…" The tech paused and cleared his throat only to continue in a quieter voice, "It was at the scene of the bomb."

Fury closed his eye briefly and blew out a slow, deep breath.

"Wipe the system."

"No." Phil choked out. "He's not dead."

"You know better than anybody that Barton wouldn't have left his weapons in someone else's hands. His comm puts him in that immediate area." Fury reasoned calmly.

"He isn't…" Phil shook his head. "He's not dead."

Fury leveled his friend with a sympathetic look but didn't know what to say. Even if Barton wasn't dead – and right now, all evidence suggested he  _was_  – and was captured instead, there were protocols to be followed with agents like him if they were caught. They couldn't risk him getting tied back to SHIELD. So he turned to the techs.

"Wipe the system. Clear Barton out completely."

* * *

Clint woke abruptly, brought back to consciousness by a stinging slap. He clenched his teeth against the pain that flared in his jaw, only to bite back a groan when the action caused the previously ignored pain in his mouth to flare to life.

"Open your eyes."

Ruiz's dark tone had Clint struggling to force his eyes open almost immediately, if only to make sure the man wasn't about to execute him. When he finally met his end, he was going to do it with his eyes open. He'd meet it head on and without fear.

But Ruiz wasn't holding a weapon, was just standing calmly, arms folded behind his back, staring straight at him.

Clint blinked to clear the heavy cobwebs lingering in his mind and tried to focus, to remember what the hell had happened.

As if protesting for trying to use his brain, pain flared in his head, centering right in the back, like his head had slammed into something.

A wall…there was something about a wall.

He shifted, and promptly bit back a curse as he abruptly realized how he was being restrained.

Arms stretched out above his head and handcuffed – handcuffs secured to the ceiling with a chain – left his bare feet to barely brush the ground. And  _holy hell_ , his shoulder. His right shoulder, centered in the general area of his collarbone, was nothing but pain.

He'd cracked his damn collarbone, maybe broken it completely.

That brought him back to the wall again. Why had he played chicken with a wall?

"Your accomplice who set the bomb is dead and we prevented him from completing your plan. You have no one coming for you."

Bomb…oh… _oh_ ….memories filtered in slowly and in fractured, confused pieces. He'd seen something. Something that had drawn him away from the Hummer. Then there was a flash of light and a force like a freight train slamming into him.

"Who are you?"

Clint frowned, bringing his eyes to meet Ruiz's. He held the other man's gaze and spoke as steadily as he could.

"You know who I am."

"I know who you  _claimed_  to be…but you knew that bomb was going to go off. You moved away from the car to protect yourself."

Clint shook his head slightly. That wasn't right – that wasn't why he'd moved.

"Your accomplice is dead."

Ruiz had said that already, but his tone was more heated this time.

Clint still hadn't figured out who his 'accomplice' was supposed to be – or how he had somehow walked away with the blame for all of this on  _his_  shoulders.

"Who are you?" The demand was all but yelled and Clint barely remembered in time  _not_  to clench his jaw against the pain that flared in his head at the man's volume.

Clint forced himself to focus on that question and nothing else.

And when he did, he realized it was kind of funny. It was one of those sadly and laughably ironic questions. He was Hawkeye – he actually, really  _was_. He wasn't wearing a cover, he  _was_ the cover. He wasn't lying, no matter how much Ruiz wanted him to be. And while he  _was_  here to kill Ruiz, he hadn't had anything to do with nearly blowing himself up in an attempt to do that.

"I'll ask just once more. Who are you?"

Clint held Ruiz's gaze and put extra effort into ensuring that his face was set in stone and his voice was hard and dark. If ever there was a time to let this version of himself run free, this would be it.

"I'm Hawkeye."

* * *

End of Chapter 5

Anybody else get a little shiver when Clint says that very last line? I know I do! Just picturing his expression and tone of voice...Clint has a capacity to be really intimidating when he wants to be!

And poor Phil! You all know I love to hear your thoughts! So share them! Are you fighting the urge to crawl into your screen and kill Ruiz - the paranoid jerk - yourself? Do you wish you could just hug Phil and tell him Clint is alive and needs his help? What's going through your minds?

You have to wait until tomorrow to see how this unfolds, but here's a preview to hold you over :D

* * *

_"I've told you, several times. I'm **Hawkeye**."_

_"So you claim," Ruiz replied sharply. "How convenient that no one can ever seem to remember what you look like or even describe you at all."_

_"What can I say?" Clint forced himself to smirk even though the action pulled at his aching jaw. "I've got a forgettable face."_


	6. To Get A Glimpse Beyond This Illusion

_First off, so SORRY for the late posting, but my husband and I did a little day trip today to see this really cool old fort in upstate NY and I didn't have time to post before we left :( I hope you can forgive me! I almost waited until tomorrow so that it wasn't so late, but I didn't want to do that to you guys without explanation! So here we are!_

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 5:_ **Evenstar129, Isi7140, immertreu, hgb, GoldOwl89 _  
_**

Special _thanks to_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their amazing and awesome beta abilities! Dan, as you've come to expect, gets his voice from_ **Kylen**

_And so we proceed to Chapter 6!_

* * *

_Anyone can give up; it is the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone would expect you to fall apart, now that is true strength.  
_ _**Chris Bradford** _

* * *

Phil jerked his arm free of Fury's grasp and made his way into the director's office of his own volition. Fury had unceremoniously pulled him from the room soon after he'd shouted an order to belay Fury's directive to wipe Clint from the system. From that point, it was a blur of yelling and cursing and finally Fury telling him to 'stand down' before the man yanked him by the bicep towards the door.

Phil paced over to the window and turned, leveling his glare at Fury as the man finished speaking quiet words to someone outside the door. Phil waited until the director pulled the door closed before point an accusing finger at him.

"It's a mistake." He spat angrily. "You're underestimating him."

"Phil." Fury raised a placating hand and spoke calmly and reasonably. "Think about it. Think about the evidence and tell me if you  _really_  think he's still alive."

Phil clenched his hands tightly and sharply shook his head.

"There  _has_  to be an explanation…"

Fury's expression tightened in frustration before loosening once again.

"Fine, you want to think about explanations? His bow and quiver were in the car, sitting right next to a burned body. Would Barton have  _ever_  left his weapon –  _that_  weapon – in the hands of someone else?"

Phil shook his head again and turned away, looking out the window. Fury knew the answer to that question just as well as he did. Clint's bow was an extension of him. He didn't trust its care to anyone but himself – the only exception had been when he first entered training and he'd been forced to hand it over. He wouldn't have left it with someone,  _anyone_ , else.

But Phil couldn't accept it. He just _couldn't_.

"He had gotten out of the car to check an accident up the road. Maybe he left it so he wouldn't draw attention."

Fury's voice was still pitched to that annoyingly reasonable tone.

"Fine. But then whose body is sitting in Barton's seat?"

Phil felt his shoulders drop.

"I don't know…but it's someone else. It has to be."

He heard Fury sigh before he replied.

"I listened to the audio, Phil. He had more than enough time to get back into the car after his last report. The trace they did puts him  _right there_. He hasn't made contact. He hasn't turned up at the safe house. One way or another, Barton is  _gone_."

Phil didn't reply,  _couldn't_. Instead he just looked out the window tried to cling to the anger that was quickly fleeting. As long as he had the anger, the absolute devastation and bone-deep fear couldn't take root. Fury stepped up next to him and followed his gaze through the window.

" _But_ , I will admit that the damn kid has a tendency to exceed expectations and defy the odds." Fury blew out a slow breath and kept his gaze on the glass. "For that reason, I'm officially listing him as MIA until we receive confirmation, but as you know, wiping him from the system is still the protocol for such a situation." Phil felt relief rise in him, but Fury went on before it could settle. "But Phil…you still need to prepare yourself for the possibility of an unfavorable outcome."

Phil shook his head sharply.

"He can't just be  _dead_."

Not just like that. Not with no warning, no chance to say goodbye. No chance to protect him or save him. That wasn't how this was supposed to end.

"He can." Fury contradicted firmly, but with a measure of compassion in his tone that sounded foreign. "And the sooner you accept that, the easier this whole situation will become."

" _Easy?_ " Phil scoffed angrily and turned to glare at Fury's profile. " _What_  part of this would  _ever_  be easy?"

Fury turned to face him, his one eye so calm and unaffected that Phil nearly lashed out.

"I realize that this is hard. I know what he meant to you."

" _Means_ to me." Phil corrected sharply because Clint  _wasn't_  dead. "And trust me when I say you have no idea."

Fury nodded his head slightly in acquiescence.

"All right," he allowed, but his tone was still firm. "But what if it is him? What if we hack the coroner's report when it's finished and compare the dental records and it's Barton? What then?"

Phil felt the anger slip away and in its place, the lurking devastation and fear took hold.

"Then let me go get him."

Fury's head cocked curiously.

"Excuse me?"

Phil nodded as the idea solidified in his mind.

"If it's him, I can't leave him there as a John Doe in a foreign morgue. I won't. Let me go to Cairo. I'll get the confirmation myself, one way or another."

It was too similar, too painfully close, to the future Clint could have had before Phil had found him. It was the future Phil worked so hard to save him from. Clint deserved so much more than to be an unclaimed body in a morgue.

The corner of Fury's mouth turned down.

"We have people at the Cairo base that can handle that when and if the time comes. You can't just go in there and snatch a body from the morgue, Phil. And something tells me they won't just let you waltz in and take your own dental mold."

"But I can  _be_ there. And if it  _is_  him…" Phil had to take a moment to combat the sudden swell of emotion in his chest at the thought before he could go on. When he did, he knew his voice was strained. "If it is him, I need to bring him home."

For several long, silent moments, Fury just stared at him.

Then he nodded.

"Go. Do what you need to do. We'll deal with everything else when you get back."

Phil worked his jaw and looked away, towards the door. Now that he had Fury's blessing, he wanted to be moving. He wanted to be on the jet to Cairo. He didn't want to think about what there would be left to deal with after the truth was finally confirmed. He didn't want to think about coming back without Clint.

"Phil?"

Phil could only manage a slight nod of acknowledgment before moving towards the door.

"Phil, you will  _be back._ "

Phil paused at the door, but didn't look back at his boss. Fury hadn't stated it as a question – had said it like he already knew it to be the truth. But Phil wasn't so sure. He wasn't sure of anything right now, least of all what he would do when this was all over.

Clint was missing in action. His survival, at this point, was still undetermined. Until it was, Phil couldn't honestly think about 'after' or what he would do if that coroner's report ended up making his worst fears a reality.

So instead, he reached for the door handle and opened the door.

And came face to face with Todd, Dan a step behind him.

"Phil? What's going on?" Todd demanded, worry suddenly clouding his features.

Phil wondered what the man had read in his face, if he was showing the storm of emotions rolling through him in some tangible way. The prospect had him suddenly working furiously to school his expression.

But then Todd's eyes widened and he paled, and Phil knew his famous calm, collectedness was failing him.

"Jesus…" Todd whispered and behind him Dan's expression fell as he too seemed to read the situation without having to be told.

"Is he alive?" Dan demanded in a strangled tone as he stared at Phil over Todd's shoulder.

Phil opened his mouth to declare firmly that 'yes' Clint was most assuredly alive, but the words caught in his throat. Because there was nothing assured about Clint's status right now. If Phil was really being honest, if he was letting himself look at all the facts of the situation, it was more likely that Clint was  _not_ okay…that Clint was…

Phil sucked in a sharp breath and squared his shoulders, pushing by the trainer and doctor so that he could go to his room and pack. He needed to be on a jet. He needed to be headed to Cairo. Clint needed him. He needed him because he was still alive.

He had to be.

* * *

Todd almost followed after him as Phil stormed away from Fury's office. He had even turned to set off in that direction when Dan's hand on his arm and then Fury's voice stopped him.

"It would be best to leave him for the moment, Agent Bryan."

Todd blew out a breath and turned back to face the director. Next to him, Dan stepped forward, entering the office without being invited. It took Todd an extra moment to collect himself enough to follow.

"What happened?" Dan asked as he watched Fury with wide, worried eyes.

Fury didn't hesitate in his response, which told Todd he'd called them here to tell them anyway. Fury being forthcoming about  _anything_  was generally cause for concern and Todd felt his level of worry for Barton slide up a notch.

"Agent Barton is missing in action." Fury revealed bluntly as he moved to his desk and took his seat with a sigh that Todd could only describe as weary.

"Missing?" Dan questioned, hope rising in his voice. "So he's alive?"

Todd reached for the support of one of the chairs opposite Fury's desk, already knowing the devastating truth that his friend did not. For agents, especially covert agents like Barton, there was a very fine line between being designated KIA or MIA. Either way, SHIELD would be washing their hands of him.

Fury leaned back in his chair and braced his elbows on the arm rests, steepling his fingers in front of his chest.

"We don't know. The current evidence suggests that he's been killed, but given his reputation and the lack of hard confirmation at the moment, I've chosen to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"What evidence?" Dan asked, the analytical, doctor part of his brain no doubt kicking in – wanting to know what injuries were believed to have befallen their young friend so he could determine for himself if he was still alive.

"His comm went out suddenly and without apparent explanation. Reports came in of a car bomb. The last trace of Barton's comm puts him in the area. His bow and quiver were found  _in_  the exploded car next to a burned corpse. Barton hasn't made contact or turned up at the designated safe house."

Dan slowly sank to sit in the other seat opposite Fury, his face pale and his expression grim. Todd cleared his throat and finally found his voice.

"Have we ruled out capture?"

The former field agent part of his brain pointed to that as a viable explanation of a lot of those facts, except the body in the car. He didn't let himself think too long about that particular point.

Fury sighed and sat forward, resting his folded hands on his desk.

"We haven't ruled anything out. But it's unlikely that they would stage this just to take him into custody when they could have easily done so when they got back to the safety of their compound."

Todd sighed and admitted to himself that Fury had a point.

"Agent Coulson is leaving for Cairo. His intent is to confirm the identity of the body we believe to be Barton. If it is our man, Agent Coulson will bring him home."

"And if it's not?" Dan challenged quietly. Todd looked to Fury for his response. They  _all_  knew Barton, they all knew he was a tough son of a bitch and when he wanted to be, he was a slippery little bastard. If anyone could have escaped a scenario like this, it would have been him.

"If it's not," Fury's eyebrow quirked and his tone took on a level of absolute conviction that had the knot in Todd's chest loosening, "then Phil will find him."

* * *

They didn't bother to knock as they came into his room, the two of them just calmly and quietly filed in and closed the door behind them.

"Phil…" Dan started quietly, but Phil cut him off with a sharp look.

"Don't try and talk me out of going."

"That's not why we're here." Todd added calmly from where he was leaning back into a corner, arms crossed almost defensively across his chest. "Fury told us what happened."

Phil scoffed. Of course he did. But Phil didn't –  _couldn't_  – care what the evidence said. Not right now. Not if he wanted to keep moving forward.

"That kid meant something to all of us, Phil," Dan continued gently.

Phil shook his head in annoyance and rifled around in his go-bag to make sure it had what he would need. He was sick of people referring to Clint in the past tense – like he was already gone.

"He wouldn't have wanted you to try and handle this alone," Todd reasoned.

Phil sharply pulled the zipper closed on his bag and rounded on his two friends.

"What the hell would you know about what he would want? You barely know him! Either of you! The Clint you know, barely even scratches the surface!" Phil growled angrily. He turned back to his bag and snatched it off the bed, reaching then for his side arm on the bedside table. Then he just stood for a second, with his back to them, and forced himself to take a breath.

It wasn't fair of him to lash out at them like that. He wasn't the only one that cared about Clint. He wasn't the only one that had started to build a relationship with him. He may know him best, may care about him the most, but he wasn't the  _only one_  that knew and cared about him.

"I'm sorry." He turned and faced them both, letting his expression add sincerity to the apology. "I just…" he shook his head. He just…he didn't know what he needed. Except he did – he needed Clint, alive and well. That was the only thing that would help.

"We know, man." Todd forgave him easily.

Phil nodded his thanks and scanned the room with his eyes one more time to make sure he had everything he'd need.

"Let us come with you. He's right, you shouldn't do this alone." Dan added.

Phil shook his head.

"I  _have_  to do this alone."

He and Clint had started this together, back in that alley in Vienna. They'd started down this road side by side and Phil was going to be damned if they didn't finish it the same way. He needed to find Clint, one way or another. If he was alive, he needed to find him and bring him home. And if he wasn't…

If he wasn't, Phil didn't want anyone around to watch the reality of that hit him. Because when it did, it wouldn't be pretty.

And if Clint was dead, he didn't want anyone around to talk him into coming back.

"Call me with any developments in the ops room." He met both of their eyes individually. While he was in flight, his access to new information would be limited. He needed to know that someone here was telling him everything. "No matter what those developments are…call me."

Both men nodded slowly and neither tried to stop him when he headed for the door.

Neither followed him when he pushed out into the hallway and headed for the hangar bay.

Nobody spoke a word to him and there was a jet already fired up and waiting when he got there.

As he strapped into the pilot's seat and started the take-off procedures, he tried to ignore how wrong it felt. Between them, Clint was the real pilot. He loved to fly the jets whenever he was given the opportunity. Phil was in  _his_  seat while the co-pilot seat next to him was painfully empty.

The whole damn  _jet_  felt empty. When had Clint become such a  _constant_  in his life that his absence now hit so goddamned hard?

Phil swallowed thickly and blinked away the moisture trying to well in his eyes.

He had promised Clint not so long ago, that he would never be alone again. All he could do now was beg God not to have made a liar out of him – beg him not to have let Clint die alone.

* * *

"Do you know what happens to a Taser gun when you remove the cartridge?"

Clint focused on breathing deeply through his nose – the only real tool he had to cope with the pain in his torso from the round he'd just gone with Ruiz's fists – and didn't answer the question. Did he know what happened to a Taser when you removed the cartridge? Yes, he did. It became a pain compliance tool. It no longer hit hard enough to incapacitate, but it was a  _very_  effective tool to cause localized, and intense, pain without fucking up his nervous system. That way he'd be fully capable of  _continuing_  to feel pain as it came.

Awesome.

"I can tell by the look in your eyes that you do. Had some experience with it, have you?" Ruiz smirked as he triggered the Taser and let Clint watch the currents of electricity buzz on the end of the gun.

Clint wouldn't say he had  _experience_  per se. He took out a guard team once back in his contract days and one of them had gotten in a lucky shot with a Taser sans cartridge. It had hurt, sure, but the guard would have been better off just shooting the damn thing like it was meant to be shot. Clint had always assumed the man had been afraid of missing and hitting one of his own team.

"Tell me who you are and I won't reacquaint you with it."

Clint rolled his eyes like they were wasting his time and added a note of annoyance to his tone.

"I've told you,  _several_  times. I'm  _Hawkeye_."

"So you claim," Ruiz replied sharply. "How convenient that no one can ever seem to remember what you look like or even describe you at all."

"What can I say?" Clint forced himself to smirk even though the action pulled at his aching jaw. "I've got a forgettable face."

Ruiz's eye twitched and he stepped forward, pushing the Taser against Clint's side and engaging it. Clint couldn't help but clench his jaw against the sudden, new, pain as the current wreaked havoc on his bruised and cracked ribs. Unfortunately, the pain was just compounded by the flare of fire in his jaw.

Ruiz pulled the gun away and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Are you still going to claim to be Hawkeye?"

Clint forced his teeth to unclench so he could respond.

"What? Do you want me to  _lie_  to you? I'm fucking Hawkeye. If you don't want to believe me, give me my bow and I'll prove it." Though that might be a trick with a damaged collarbone.

"Ah, unfortunately your bow was lost in the explosion."

That news momentarily silenced him and caused a deep slicing pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the Taser or the beating. His bow. His  _first_  bow. It was gone, just like that. It felt like a part of him had just been torn away. But he couldn't show that to Ruiz, so despite the deep, aching pain of the loss, he forced his expression to be nonchalant and twitched his shoulders in a weak imitation of a shrug.

"Well," Clint cleared his throat, "that's unfortunate. I expect to be reimbursed for that."

Ruiz scowled at him.

"Look, everybody on the compound has seen me shoot over the last couple weeks. Ask  _anybody_. Nobody can shoot like that but the real deal."

"Or perhaps you are just a well-trained marksman."

Clint felt his expression harden in real offense and his tone sharpened to match.

"There's only one  _fucking Hawkeye._ Even the idiots of the world will readily acknowledge that. No one else can shoot like me,  _no one_."

Did he sound a bit arrogant? Most assuredly. But it was  _true_. There were other good – even great – marksmen out there. But none of them could shoot his bow like he could, no one in the world would ever even get close.

"Perhaps." Ruiz shrugged doubtfully.

Clint rolled his eyes in frustration.

"For fuck's sake, you've obviously already made up your mind and no matter how many times I beat my head against this particular brick wall, you aren't going to believe me. So ask a new question. The broken record routine is getting boring."

Anger flared in Ruiz's expression and without warning he put the gun against Clint's exposed side again and engaged it. Clint fought not to clench his teeth, and clenched his hands into fists instead. The handcuffs dug into his wrists as the muscles flexed, but it was a welcome distraction.

Ruiz left the gun pressed to his side for much longer than Clint really thought was necessary, long enough that clenching his fists stopped being an effective pain management technique. But he would  _not_  clench his jaw. He'd learned that lesson.

Finally, Ruiz backed away.

"You want a new question, how about this? Who do you work for? Who sent you here?"

Clint forced out a sarcastic laugh, though it was a little too short of breath to carry the weight he wanted it to.

"Sent me here? Nobody  _sent me here_. Your fucking sidekick  _kidnapped_  me off the streets."

"So you claim you were  _not_  sent here to kill me?"

Clint scoffed.

"Quite a high opinion of yourself you've got there, Ruiz. I didn't even know who you  _were_  until he," he nodded at Cohen who stood near the door, "explained it to me." Clint quirked his lips into a patronizing smirk. "You actually think you're important enough to earn a contract? One that would pay enough to get  _my_ attention? That's cute."

He was ready for the pain this time; he'd been asking for it after all. As long as Ruiz was pissed and torturing, he wasn't asking questions. As long as he wasn't asking questions, Clint wasn't having to think of lies and was able to focus on escaping – somehow.

By the time Ruiz stepped back again, escape was the last thing on Clint's mind. No, he was solely and completely focused on not  _screaming_. Ruiz was a sick little bastard, who was definitely enjoying this way too much.

"I'll ask again, who do you work for?"

Clint blew out a few breaths – forcing them to be deep and slow to get the echoes of pain back under control – before he answered.

"I work for whoever's paying the best rate at the moment. Right now, with my need to reclaim some anonymity, that happened to be  _you_. Though I think we can consider this my two-week's notice…"

At the door Cohen's lips quirked, but Ruiz did not look anywhere near amused.

"So you are claiming to be here of your own choice?"

Clint arched an eyebrow.

"I've mentioned the kidnapping right?"

Frustrated annoyance swept through Ruiz's gaze and Clint granted him a cheeky smirk. He spoke again before Ruiz could do anything rash.

"If you're asking if someone else is cutting me a second check, then  _no_. At the moment,  _you're_  the only one paying my bills…and I gotta say, I think after all this, a raise is in order."

Ruiz barely let him get the words out before he was pressing the gun against Clint's gut and pressing the trigger. Clint did allow a slight grunt to slip past his lips, but forced it to morph into a close-lipped laugh as Ruiz let the current go dead and stepped back again.

"That one tickled a little."

Ruiz's lip curled in annoyance.

"Fine, no raise." Clint allowed graciously.

"I thought you were quitting?" Cohen spoke for the first time as he stepped away from the door.

"Oh well, what can I say…" Clint sighed. "I'm all about the payday, don't care much where it comes from." He shot Ruiz a depreciating look to knock the intended slight home.

"We know you're working for someone." Cohen explained calmly, never removing his gaze from Clint's as Ruiz slowly moved to circle behind him. Clint fought the urge to follow Ruiz's movements and kept his eyes on Cohen's as well.

"Yeah,  _you_. Don't know how many times I gotta say it."

Cohen shook his head and stepped slightly to the side as Ruiz came around Clint's other side and glared at him.

"Then how do you explain the device implanted in your tooth?"

Clint responded automatically with a practiced reply he'd come up with just in case the transmitter was ever found.

"Ever heard of hands-free calling? My primary weapon requires both hands, that  _'device'_  lets me take calls when I'm otherwise occupied. It's actually been pretty good for business."

Ruiz smirked darkly.

"And where did you find such advanced technology?"

Clint didn't miss a beat.

"I've got connections in Beijing."

Both men chuckled as if Clint were being funny. Clint just let himself show the annoyance he was feeling.

"So if we were to remove that device and examine it, we would find some sort of manufacturing mark to tie it back to a seller in Beijing?"

Clint hoped they didn't find  _any_  manufacturing mark, because if they did, it would tie him directly back to SHIELD.

"Come on, you know how those types of sales work…I doubt it's got any identifying marks."

"Let's see, shall we?"

And just like that, the Taser was pressed against his crotch.

"Move a muscle to in any way harm my associate while he removes the device and you  _will_  regret it."

Clint wasn't even sure he was willing to risk  _breathing_  at the moment.

Cohen was tall enough to grab Clint's jaw and peer down into his mouth without needing a stool. Clint didn't flinch, didn't jerk away, just let it happen. Next to him, Ruiz's lips curled into a vicious smirk.

"We found the device when we searched you before you woke up. Your tooth is cracked, by the way, you really must have hit that wall hard." Ruiz spoke conversationally and casually. As if his little friend Cohen  _wasn't_  about to pull Clint's cracked molar – and really, that explained the whole jaw on fire thing – and as if Ruiz  _weren't_  holding a Taser to his crotch.

Clint grudgingly admitted – as he tried to distract himself when Cohen pulled a pair of dirty pliers from his back pocket – that Ruiz had made a good call. Without the current deterrent, Clint would have either bit Cohen's fingers by now or, attacked him with his legs. As it stood, he wasn't even resisting having his jaw held open.

It turned out getting a cracked tooth yanked out of your mouth hurt just about as bad as getting a whole tooth pulled out of your mouth, only doubled. The fucking thing just  _had_  to come out in two pieces.

Clint didn't scream this time. Holy  _hell_ , he wanted to. But he wanted to avoid being Tasered in the groin a whole  _hell_  of a lot more. If he really thought about it, the threat of a Taser in such a sensitive area was probably the best pain control technique he'd ever come across, though it was not one he  _ever_  wanted to put to use again.

When Cohen finally backed away, the two pieces of Clint's cracked tooth in his hand along with a small black device, Ruiz didn't move. So Clint didn't move either, instead he just hung there, handcuffs cutting into his wrists and blood pooling in his mouth.

He refused to look at Ruiz, to do anything that would break the stone-cold hard glare he currently had pinned on the door. And still Ruiz didn't move.

It was only when Cohen tossed his boss an impatient look that the man finally moved.

But not before briefly engaging the Taser.

"Holy shit  _fuck_!" Clint snarled – spraying blood as he did – and he pulled up and away with his arms. He ignored the sharp, biting pain in his collarbone, ignored the way the metal of the cuffs tore into his wrists. He just had to get away from the pain.

Ruiz laughed and moved to stand next to Cohen.

"You fucking asshole." Clint hissed around his suddenly gasping breaths. "Goddamned bastard." He added quietly and mostly to himself as he let his head drop back slightly and closed his eyes to collect himself.

"It's broken, cracked right down the middle." Cohen's quiet voice had Clint drawing his head forward again and looking at his two captors. He took another deep breath to steady himself.

"It's broken? Shit." He spit a mouthful of fresh blood onto the floor, as close to their feet as he could manage. "That little fucker cost a fortune. I'm adding it to my list of reimbursements."

Cohen went on as if he hadn't spoken.

"No identifying markings. Could have been manufactured anywhere."

Clint didn't even allow himself a relieved breath because Ruiz's attention was already focused back on him.

"It seems that we cannot prove anything at this juncture."

"Ever considered that's because there's nothing to prove?" Clint countered.

"But the evidence is not in your favor."

"What evidence?" Clint snapped. "A broken device and a car bomb that almost  _killed_ me. You and I have very different definitions of the term 'evidence.'"

"Yes, about that explosion…" Ruiz stepped closer, casually tapping the Taser against his hand. "You only survived because you moved away from the car. You knew it was coming."

"I moved away from the car because I saw someone in the alley." He remembered that much at least. " _You_  were the one that insisted someone was following you. I was just doing my job."

"And yet, you didn't report seeing someone when your team leader expressly asked you what was happening."

Clint blinked. Had Mathis asked him something before the bomb went off? He honestly couldn't remember.

"No quick response for that one?" Ruiz smiled in triumph.

"I'm a solo operative," Clint defended suddenly. "I'm not used to having to report my every movement. I figured if everyone else was too stupid to see the threat, I didn't need to waste my time filling them in."

Ruiz's smile turned patronizing and Clint knew he didn't believe him. He wasn't surprised; Ruiz hadn't believe anything he'd said since this whole interrogation started.

"We can't prove anything." Cohen spoke up suddenly, the unexpected voice of reason.

"Perhaps not," Ruiz allowed, never taking his eyes off of Clint. "But I know a way to settle all doubts."

Clint already knew he wasn't going to like this.

"If you are who you claim you are, if you are the famous Hawkeye, you will have no trouble doing what you do best – killing."

Clint felt his brows pull together in confusion.

"Think of it as a fight for your life. Kill or be killed."

And just like that – even with the lingering effects of a mild concussion – Clint put the pieces together.

The Ring. Ruiz was going to put him in The Ring.

"You have to kill the man you are fighting. If you don't, he will kill you."

Clint couldn't think – his brain literally froze. He'd been fighting for the last two weeks – hell, the last seventeen  _months_  – not to be that person anymore, not to be that version of himself. And now, the only way for him to survive, was to embrace those dark pieces of who he was. The pieces that made him a killer.

And strangely, the only thing he could think about, was what  _Phil_  would think if he ever found out.

"If you win, I'll put this all behind us. You will have proven your loyalty to me and this organization. But if you fail, I'll have no choice to believe you are  _not_ the famous assassin you claim to be – and well, you won't like my reaction to that."

Clint already didn't like his reaction to just the  _suspicion_ of that.

"But first, as I've been told you have quite the affinity for hand to hand, I think we should even the playing field."

Ruiz engaged the Taser and let Clint watch the current flow for a moment before moving towards him.

* * *

Boomer kept the hood of his old black hoodie – complete with red faded lettering marking him as a Marine – up over his head as he stood at the edge of The Ring. Word of Hawkeye's supposed betrayal had spread fast and the news of his slated 'fight to the death' had spread even faster.

The whole compound was in an excited, bloodthirsty frenzy. Under the table bets had started getting laid down as soon as the fight became official. And now, as the fight time neared, the betting table had opened early, before the fighters were even in the arena.

Most people were putting their money on the Hawk, citing his prowess in The Ring and the fact that he was a stone-cold killer. There seemed to be little doubt amongst the masses about who was walking away from tonight's fight and who wasn't.

But Boomer wasn't betting, not tonight. Because while he couldn't bring himself to bet against his young friend, he couldn't bet  _on_  him either. Because something deep in his gut told him when it came down to it, Hawkeye wasn't going to just  _kill_  a guy he had no argument with. Maybe not even to save his own life.

But as the other fighter of the night was led into the arena, Boomer wished with everything he had that he was wrong. That Hawkeye would put the guy down as quickly and efficiently as possible.

It was a man name Abel Reed. He had been banned from The Ring for as long as Boomer had been with Ares. Banned because he'd killed too many guys in the fights. If Hawkeye didn't kill this guy, he would most assuredly kill the Hawk.

As if cued, the crowd parted at the other side of the arena and a familiar lean figure was all but shoved over the wall and left to tumble ungracefully to the ground. Boomer flinched, but otherwise didn't move.

They'd worked him over good, he could see that from where he stood. Something in the Hawk's left shoulder was off and his limbs were noticeably trembling as he pushed himself first to his hands and knees and then up to his feet. His bare torso was covered in a mixture of swelling darkening patches that would soon become painful bruises and a handful of painful, raw burns – electrical burns.

"Jesus." Boomer breathed the word in shock as he watched Hawkeye take a moment to steady himself before raising his head. His face was still badly bruised from his fights the night before –  _had it really only been last night?_  – and there was dried blood coating one side of his jaw. But he looked alert and like he was mentally preparing himself as the seconds went by.

It was like physically watching a wall get built. One brick at a time, Hawkeye seemed to push aside and ignore whatever hurts and pains he was feeling and steady himself until soon his limbs were no longer shaking and he was coolly gazing across the dirt floor at his rival.

Even his expression had locked down – locked down so tightly that Boomer almost didn't recognize him. And then he took a step forward, towards Reed. It was just one step, just enough to show he was ready and that he wasn't intimidated.

It might as well have been a charging leap for the way the crowd suddenly erupted in cheers. They wanted a fight and for a brief moment they'd been afraid they weren't going to get one. But the Hawk had done it again, he'd proved himself unshakeable.

And the fight hadn't even started yet.

Cohen called for attention from his platform but as he introduced the fight, Boomer ignored him. He kept his eyes on Hawkeye instead, watching him, wondering what choice the young man was going to make.

Then just before Cohen signaled the start of the fight, something unexpected happened. Hawkeye turned his head and looked right at him, met Boomer's eyes unerringly as if he'd known exactly where he was the entire time.

And Boomer knew.

Hawkeye was about to prove himself the killer Boomer hadn't believed him to be.

He couldn't decide if he was disappointed or relieved, but supposed when it came down to it, Hawkeye would always act in the interest of one thing and one thing only.

Survival.

* * *

End of Chapter 6

Bet you're wondering how there's a body in "Clint's" seat when he wasn't actually in the Hummer when it blew...anybody got a theory? Remember who we're dealing with in Ruiz...he's not stupid.

And a fight to the death! Whoever wrote this story is evil and loves to put Clint through hell! Who does that? *wink, wink* Why do I do this to Clint? Why?! Because we all love it, that's why :)

Now, show of hands if you really don't want to wait until tomorrow to see that big fight! TOO BAD! I'm evil and making you wait - sorry, not sorry :D But the more comments I get the earlier I'll post ;)

Here's a preview to help ease the pain

* * *

_His opponent had made the same key mistake so many tended to when dealing with Clint. He'd underestimated him. He'd thought a beating, getting blown into a wall, and getting tortured with a taser would slow Clint down. He'd thought he was going up against a weakened opponent._

_But injuries only slowed you down if you let yourself feel them._

_And Hawkeye didn't feel a damn thing._


	7. Now Your Life's No Longer Empty

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 6:_   **Evenstar129, immertreu, Hamham2931, hgb, Isi7140, Guest** **  
**

_To_ **immertreu:** _I always love feedback lol - if you post it on FFN too i'll be doubly happy!_

_Special thanks to_   **Kylen**   _for acting as a beta and for giving me Dan's lines for this :) She knows how the man talks better than I do these days ;)_

_Also thanks to_ **JRBarton** _for acting as second-beta and for keeping me on track with the timeline of this story!_

_So let's get going…here's Chapter 7!_

* * *

_Pain is your friend; it is your ally. Pain reminds you to finish the job and get the hell home. Pain tells you when you have been seriously wounded. And you know what the best thing about pain is? It tells you you're not dead yet!_

_**Unknown** _

* * *

Dan Wilson was used to controlled chaos. He was a goddamned doctor. He'd worked in a war zone for fuck's sake. And now he worked in the infirmary for a covert spy organization. Controlled chaos was practically the status quo as far as he was concerned.

But there was something different about sitting in Operational Command watching things happen that were completely and totally beyond his control. At least when he was working in the middle of it all he could help. He could do something to ease the suffering of those around him.

But as he sat next to Todd and watched the fallout of the car bomb unfold on the screens, he was helpless. He was obsolete. He was useless to the entire situation. It wasn't a feeling he liked or one he would ever get used to.

To put it simply, it sucked.

There were burn victims, caught in the initial flash up from the blast. There were shrapnel victims, some of them bleeding so seriously that Dan could tell by looking at them that they wouldn't survive. Then there were the poor souls that had been walking right next to the car and were nothing but charred bodies that matched the charred bodies that the coroner had already removed from the car.

It was chaos, but it was controlled. The responders were moving around triaging the victims and doing exactly what Dan would be doing if he were there. It was familiar in a terrifyingly real way. He'd seen the fallout of car bombs first hand when he was in Croatia. He'd treated victims just like those he saw on the screens now.

If he closed his eyes and thought about it too long, it was like he was back there. Like there was gunfire echoing around him. Like the smell of blood and burned flesh was still filling his nostrils. Like the screams of the victims were still blending in with all of the other noises of war.

An elbow hit his side suddenly and Dan snapped his eyes open, turning his glare onto Todd.

But the trainer wasn't looking at him, had his eyes pinned on Fury and the two techs across the room. Dan followed his gaze and frowned. Something was happening.

"Something's happening." Todd echoed his thoughts out loud.

"No shit." Dan muttered, sitting back in his chair with a huff and crossing his arms over his chest.

Todd shot him an annoyed look and sat back as well when all Fury did was lean closer over the techs' shoulders and stare harder at their screens.

"Why can't they just send agents in and snatch the body? It'd be a hell of a lot faster than waiting for the coroner's report." Dan grumbled crossly as he watched the other various agents in the room move around in their own form of controlled chaos, some of them on the phone, others analyzing footage of the blast zone, a few analyzing Barton's last comm report.

"SHIELD is a covert agency, Dan. Body snatching, especially when it's involved in something this high profile, is the opposite of subtle. It would draw too much attention."

"But isn't that exactly what Phil's going to do if it is Barton?" Dan challenged.

Todd shot him a patronizing glance.

"But we don't know that it  _is_ Barton. You suggesting we just steal the body and if it doesn't belong to us we just give it back and say 'my bad?'"

Dan scowled.

"Fuck you, Todd. I'm a doctor, not a field agent."

Todd's eyebrow quirked, unruffled by Dan's rising irritation.

Dan sighed and looked back at the screens.

"That's what I understand." Dan nodded his chin towards the screens. "I understand action, helping people in the moment, when they need it. All this other shit? Writing off one of our own like he never existed? Leaving him there to be labeled a John Doe, because you damn well know if it was anybody but Barton, nobody would be going to get him? That's all the shit I don't get."

Todd sighed and glanced again at Fury, as if he could glean information on the situation just by staring. After a moment, when Fury still didn't stand from his hunch over the techs, he turned his attention back to Dan.

"I know it doesn't make sense to you – that a lot of those field protocols have never really made sense to you – but they're there for a reason. Most of the time it sucks, but it also saves lives."

Dan scoffed and looked at his friend.

"Can you honestly tell me that you're worried about  _anybody's_ life but Barton's right now? I've known you for years, Todd. I know that look in your eyes. I see the way you keep watching Fury. Are you telling me that you don't wish they'd just break in there and get the body so we can know for sure? What if he's out there? What if he needs help and nobody knows because we're all getting bogged down by the goddamned  _protocols_!"

Todd swallowed thickly and shook his head, worry for their young friend shining brightly in his eyes.

"I can't think like that, man. If I think like that, I'm going to go crazy."

Dan deflated a little and looked back at the screens once more. He understood where Todd was coming from. Hell, the man had been directly involved with Barton's training from the beginning. He knew the kid better than Dan did, probably cared about him more than Dan had started to. Dan cared about Barton, he did. He hoped to God that the kid was alive somewhere, relatively unharmed and doing what he did best – surviving. But where Dan's worry was leaning, where his focus kept going back to, was Phil. Because Barton had somehow become  _everything_  to Phil. And if that kid was gone for good, Phil would be too. And there wasn't a damn thing Dan could do but sit here and feel useless.

"You know I never thought the day would come that I'd  _wish_  that kid was being held somewhere. Hell, I'd even be happy if he was being put through the ringer. I just want him to be alive." Todd's eyes were on Fury again as he spoke and his tone was pitched so low it was barely even loud enough to qualify as a whisper.

Dan nodded.

"Beats the hell out of the alternative."

For several minutes they sat quietly and then Fury abruptly straightened. Todd's back went rigid and he barely seemed to resist the urge to stand and meet the director as he approached them.

Fury stopped in front of them, met both their eyes and then spoke.

"There's something you both need to see."

Todd shot up from his chair and beat both of them back to the techs. Dan followed more slowly, knowing by some instinct that whatever he was about to see was either going to make or break one of his best friends. Whatever was on that screen was going to determine more than Barton's fate.

It was going to determine Phil's.

The techs moved aside when they got there and left the screens open for them to see. Dan stood with Todd and looked down at the screen. A few moments later, Todd raised one fist to press against his mouth and reached for the back of the tech's chair with his other hand. Then he closed his eyes tightly and backed away from the screen, turning his back to it.

Dan stood rigid next to him, suddenly feeling numb.

"We gotta…" Todd fumbled with something in his pocket. "Phil…"

Dan reached out and stopped Todd from doing anything further with the phone he pulled out.

"Wait. Are there any pictures?"

The techs shared a startled glance and then one of them replied.

"It's just the preliminary report, so there're just some basic shots, nothing we can analyze yet…"

"Show me."

"Jesus, Dan, what the hell are you trying to prove?" Todd snapped as he turned back around.

"I need to see them, just pull them up."

The techs shared another glance and then both looked to Fury. The director watched Dan carefully for a moment and then nodded once.

The tech reached for the computer and started clicking.

A moment later a series of pictures filled the screen.

"Jesus…" Todd turned away again, fist going back to his mouth.

Dan leaned closer to the screen, running his eyes over the photo, analyzing whatever details he could. When he'd seen everything he could on the first he went to the next, then the next, but it was the last picture that had him closing his eyes and stepping back from the screens.

Todd didn't turn to face him, but spoke over his shoulder instead.

"Satisfied?" his tone was bitter and a shade judgmental. Dan wasn't surprised. He'd been judgmental about the field agent crap. Todd could be judgmental about the doctor crap.

He nodded slowly and stepped farther back from the screen, so he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Todd, both of them facing opposite directions.

"We need to call Phil." Todd announced shakily, his eyes going down to the phone still in his hand.

Dan reached to push Todd's hand down gently.

"I'll do it."

Todd nodded gratefully and moved farther away from the screens, sinking down into a chair and dropping his head into his hands.

Dan blew out a breath and fished his own phone out of his pocket.

He dialed and waited as it rang.

" _Hello?"_

"Phil…it's Dan."

* * *

Phil was halfway into his flight, had spent the last five hours alternately staring out the window and down at his phone. When it had finally rung, he almost hadn't reacted. But then the sound reverberating through the jet processed in his brain and he lurched forward, answering the call on the second ring.

"Hello?"

" _Phil…it's Dan."_

News. A call meant there was news. It meant that may finally be able to turn this into a rescue mission, what it should have been from the start.

"What've you got?"

If they had a location, Phil could start planning. He could start figuring out how to get Clint back…

" _We've got the preliminary coroner's report here."_ Even through the phone line, Dan's voice sounded off…flat.

Phil felt a fissure of fear slice into him, but he stubbornly pushed it away. Clint wasn't dead. He was out there – waiting for Phil to come for him.

"And?" He asked, unable to keep that burgeoning hope out of his tone. He knew it wasn't Clint, that it couldn't be. The coroner's report had to have proven that – proven what he'd felt in his gut all along.

" _And…"_  Dan's voice tightened and caught and Phil felt that hope start to fall suddenly and abruptly.  _"Damnitall, Phil, do I need to actually say it?"_

Phil felt his heart start pounding, his hands grow cold and his breathing start to speed up. He clung stubbornly to his hope and clawed at it to keep it close.

"Yes, Dan – fucking  _say it_."

He wouldn't believe it otherwise, wouldn't believe anything unless proof was staring him in the face. He may not even be able to believe it then.

" _It's him."_  Two words and Phil's world crumbled. It was all he could do to keep listening.  _"It's got to be._ _They…they found a fake tooth, broken in half._ _With a communicator inside. All the other physical markers match, right down to the damn scar on his shoulder neither of you will tell me how he got."_

In some distant part of his mind, Phil could hear the gentleness in Dan's tone, a warm kindness that was rich with the history of their friendship. But all Phil could focus on was two words…

' _It's him.'_

It's him.

No.  _NO._

" _I'm sorry. I just…"_  Dan was talking again but Phil barely heard him.  _"I don't think there's any way, Phil. Not even for Barton…damn, I'm so sorry."_

Phil opened his mouth to challenge him. To tell Dan he was wrong, that the report was wrong, that it was  _all_  wrong…but the words died before they ever left his mouth. Instead all he could manage was a strangled groan of denial.

" _Phil?"_ Dan sounded worried now.  _"Talk to me."_

Phil pulled hard at his control, wrapping it around himself as firmly as he could.

"It can't…" the control slipped just as quickly as he'd gathered it. "He  _can't_ …"  _Ah, God, please_. Phil drew in a shaky, ragged breath and forced himself to go on. "He can't just be  _gone._ "

Dan's reply was quick.

" _You think I want to believe it? Dammit, I'm looking at a picture of the damn tooth and comm right now, Phil."_

"Jesus..." Phil breathed as he clamped his hand over his mouth and tried to keep the emotions that were suddenly swelling within him from overwhelming him.

There was a moment of silence before Dan spoke again.

" _Put the jet on autopilot, Phil, if you haven't already. That's an order from Fury."_

"It's on."

Phil had put the damn thing on autopilot five minutes into the flight, knowing he wouldn't be in any state of mind to fly the jet for any length of time until he knew Clint was okay.

But Clint wasn't okay. Clint was never going to be okay.

Clint was dead.

Something in his chest tightened so painfully that he had to draw in a sharp breath.

" _Okay."_ Phil heard Dan say something, muffled, like he had covered the phone. Then there was a rustle and then Dan was back.  _"What do you need, Phil? I'd ask if you were okay, but I know the answer."_

"I need…" What did he need? He needed  _Clint_  alive and well. He wasn't going to  _get_  what he needed. So he'd have to settle for what he  _could_ get. "I need to bring him home."

He wasn't going to leave Clint alone in some Egyptian morgue to be written off as some John Doe never to be claimed or cared about. He was coming  _home_. Phil would bring him home.

" _Do you want us there? Todd and I'll be on the next flight out if you say the word."_

There was another rustle, and this time, Phil heard a louder answer with a tone of sharp annoyance. And a muffled response that sounded like 'try and stop me.' Then Dan came back on the line.

" _No matter_ _ **what**_ _fucking protocol says."_

Phil shook his head even as he answered.

"No…I need…" he forced himself to take a breath, "I need to do this on my own. I'll handle it."

Dan muttered something softly, almost under his breath.

Phil frowned in confusion.

"What was that?"

Dan sighed.

" _I said, 'Sure you can handle it.' And you'll handle it alone because that's what you do."_ There was no anger in Dan's tone, just an odd resignation.  _"Just…bring him back_ _ **here**_ _, Phil. Don't…well, you know what I'm saying."_

Phil did know, but right now he couldn't think about anything beyond just getting Clint out of that morgue. Clint deserved to go home...but where was home for him? The only one the kid had ever really had was the one he'd had as a child, one he hadn't seen in  _years_ , one that was cloaked in sadness and heartache.

"Don't make me promise anything, Dan...I just...I can't think about that right now..."

There was silence for a long, long moment. Then Dan finally spoke.

" _Remember you have family here. That's all I ask."_

"I know, Dan…I know." He just didn't know if that would be enough to make him stay…not right now at least. Maybe not for a long time. "Look…I need to go…I need to just…" Deal with this. Or try to, somehow. As if he would ever be able to.

" _You need to deal. Call if you need to. Be_ _ **safe**_ _, Phil."_

"Yeah," was all Phil managed before he disconnected the call.

Then he just stared down at his phone for several long, heavy moments.

' _It's him.'_

The words whispered through his mind and had him clenching his hand around the device.

Clint was gone.

With that painful, heartbreaking thought reverberating through every part of his body, Phil finally allowed himself a reaction, an outlet for the sudden and overwhelming pain that was consuming him. He launched his phone across the cockpit with a strangled shout and watched with undue satisfaction as it slammed into the metal wall and sent shards of plastic scattering across the floor.

He made no move to retrieve the phone, instead left it on the floor as he hunched over his knees. He dropped his head into his hands and dug his fingers into his scalp. It was over. What he had wholly believed to be a rescue mission just minutes ago, was now something else entirely. It was a recovery mission to retrieve a body – _Clint's_  body. Because no matter how much he wanted to deny it, to rage against it, he couldn't…not anymore.

Clint was dead.

* * *

Clint pulled his gaze away from Boomer and refocused his attention on his opponent just as Cohen rang the bell to start the fight. The other man – Clint had seen him in passing only once and didn't know his name – started towards him immediately, giving Clint only a few seconds to form a battle plan that wouldn't end with him dead on the dirt.

His opponent was big, but not in the type of way that was going to slow him down. He stood just over six feet and looked to be made of nothing but solid, lean muscle. He moved with the same kind of lethal grace and confidence that Clint attributed to intense and thorough combat training with just the right mix of natural instinct.

He would know after all. He knew he moved in the exact same way.

There were only two reasons Clint could think of that he hadn't seen this guy fight since he'd been here. Either nobody challenged him because he was unbeatable – though that had never seemed to stop people from challenging  _him_ – or he was banned.

As far as Clint knew, only the guys that couldn't seem to avoid killing their opponents got banned from The Ring.

Either way, he needed to end this as quickly as possible. His already abused body just wasn't going to be up for any sort of knock down drag out battle at the moment.

So Clint blew out a breath, pushed whatever remnants of pain that were still filtering through his body out of his mind, and braced himself. He was going to have to play this perfectly if he wanted to walk away from it. That meant doing what Phil had taught him. Defense. And when he got his opening, he'd put the other man down so hard that he wouldn't get up.

His opponent's lips stretched into a malicious and ugly smile as he closed in. He was obviously planning on enjoying this.

Clint kept his expression set in stone. Now wasn't the time for sarcasm or cocky smirks. It was time to be the scary-ass fucker who made the worst of the criminal world step back and avert their eyes. It was time to be Hawkeye.

The other man swung out with a tight, lightning-fast right cross. It was a test – a way for the man to gauge what he was dealing with. It was a way to see how fast Clint was. It was smart – given Clint's current state – and it was a good way to set the tone for the fight. If he landed the hit, Clint would probably be floored. If Clint dodged, the man would know he had a fight on his hands without ever leaving a hole in his defenses.

But Clint wasn't going to wait for a hole. He was going to make one.

He leaned to the left and wrapped his right hand around his opponent's right forearm as it split the air next to his head. It was an action almost too fast to follow – a move only a man with nearly inhuman reflexes and speed could have pulled off. He saw the other man's eyes widen in surprise even as Clint threw all of his weight into a hard, sharp uppercut with his left hand – right into the other man's short ribs.

The hit landed so hard, the snap of bones breaking could be heard clearly throughout the suddenly quiet arena.

Before the resulting gasp of breath even left the other man's mouth, Clint had quick stepped backwards, out of reach.

The man – fighting instincts obviously as ingrained in him as they were in Clint – barely let the sudden strike phase him. His expression darkened and he met Clint's gaze across the short distance between them. Clint knew then that he wouldn't take the other man by surprise again.

His opponent had made the same key mistake so many tended to when dealing with Clint. He'd underestimated him. He'd thought a beating, getting blown into a wall, and getting tortured with a taser would slow Clint down. He'd thought he was going up against a weakened opponent.

But injuries only slowed you down if you let yourself feel them.

And Hawkeye didn't feel a damn thing.

A sudden shout cut through the eerie silence in the arena.

"Kill the little shit, Reed!"

The crowd around the Ring erupted in shouts and 'Reed' moved at him again.

Clint's eyes narrowed as his opponent came in close again – too close for a guy that had just gotten a rib broken for a similar move. Even as he scanned the man's body, looking for whatever he was trying to hide from the eyes around him with his proximity, he ducked under a well-delivered left hook and was immediately forced to dodge a following right jab.

It was the fact that his eyes never stopped moving over Reed's body that saved him. He saw Reed's left hand slide down to his belt even as the man was jabbing with his right. He saw the fingers of his left hand wrap around the buckle and saw the flash of the hidden blade in just enough time to step back and get a hand up in defense.

The blade opened his right palm from his wrist bone to his index finger and the force of the strike sent him spinning a half turn to the left. A boot cracked into the back of his knee and then the blade flayed open his back from left hip to right shoulder. It was a shallow cut, nothing more than an annoyance really, but it still hurt like hell.

Clint threw himself down, forcing his weight over his right shoulder and ignoring the flare of white hot pain that ignited around his broken collarbone. He heard Reed pursuing him even over the sudden shouts from the crowd – a mixture of glee and protest.

Clint rolled to his feet and spun immediately, bringing his foot up in a round house.

His bare ankle hit Reed's wrist – knocking it away – but it didn't dislodge the blade. It  _did_  give Clint the room he needed to let his instincts completely take over. Everything around him faded away. His only focus was on Reed and that blade.

The knife was Clint's now. Reed just didn't know it yet.

Reed must have seen something shift in Clint's eyes because he hesitated a moment before he attacked again. And when he attacked it was with vicious ferocity, like he knew every move had to count.

He swung the blade from right to left, hoping to either catch Clint's throat or force him back and off balance.

Clint latched onto the hand with the blade – Reed's left – and moved, circling wide around the blade and forcing Reed's arm straight. Then he spun, twisting until his back was against the back of Reed's now-forcefully extended arm. Keeping his right hand firmly wrapped around Reed's left – and subsequently the knife grasped in it – Clint reached back with his left arm, hooking it around the front of Reed's neck.

He tightened that arm for leverage and yanked hard on the hand with the knife, forcing Reed's elbow against his back at the wrong angle. The force of the blow dislocated the other man's joint with a snap and Clint stripped the knife from the hand as it went lax. Then he kicked back with his bare foot – forcing Reed's knee to give way – and threw his weight forward, pulling Reed down hard onto his back with the arm he had around his neck.

Even as he hit the ground, Reed was reacting. His leg scissored up and hooked around Clint's chest, slamming him back hard onto the ground. Reed rolled up, following Clint's descent and slammed a closed fist into Clint's cheek.

It took everything Clint had to ignore the sudden burst of light that exploded in his vision and keep a firm hold on the knife. It was a task made harder by the blood coating his palm from the still-bleeding cut and harder still by the sudden vice-like grip Reed wrapped around his wrist.

And of course it was his right hand, the one connected to his  _broken_  right collarbone.

Reed's weight bore down on him as the larger man straddled Clint's waist. Then Reed's other hand locked down around his throat and all at once "breathing" just wasn't something that was happening for him.

And then everything sharpened into intense, terrifyingly clear focus.

He saw the path – the string of moves he needed to make to put that knife through Reed's neck.

And in the back of his mind, he was counting. Because there was one thing about Clint that Reed wouldn't be counting on.

6 minutes and 26 seconds.

He just had to hope that Reed ended up wanting to savor the moment instead of just crushing his windpipe.

When he made it past a minute and the grip on his throat was just bruising – hurt like hell but just bruising – Clint knew his plan was going to work.

Clint made it to three and a half minutes before he pretended to pass out.

Thirty seconds later Reed's hand loosened fractionally, but Clint didn't dare draw in a breath.

His first move was made blindly, made effective by instinct alone.

He slid his left hand up and around the back of Reed's neck and jerked his head down at the same time Clint pulled himself up. His forehead cracked into Reed's nose with a sickening crunch and the other man's blood was suddenly covering both of them.

Reed was only able to draw in a shocked gasp before Clint was bringing his knees up hard into Reed's back, knocking the other man forward and dislodging his weight on Clint's waist. While the man was off balance, Clint was able to twist his lower body free of Reed's weight and curl up – ignoring broken ribs and the rough ground digging into the wound on his back. He contorted and twisted, locking his knees around Reed's head from the side and then twisted him forcefully down to the ground. He used the momentum of the move to help him pull his upper body off the ground and a second later he was the one straddling Reed with  _his_  hand around  _Reed's_ throat.

He slid the knife in above his hand, pressing the edge of the blade up under the man's chin.

One of Reed's hand's scratched at the hand with the knife. The other reached to claw at Clint's throat again, squeezing hard and ruthlessly.

But Clint didn't feel it.

He didn't hear the shouts and jeers of the crowd.

He didn't see the suddenly frantic widening of Reed's eyes as the blade cut into the tender flesh of his throat.

All he saw was the blood suddenly spilling slowly over the blade.

And all he wanted, more than anything, was to push the blade deeper until Reed was nothing but a bad memory. He wanted to end this. To  _survive_  and to finally be _done_  with Ares and everyone in it. And why shouldn't he? It was kill or be killed. Besides, this was what he was... _who_  he was. He was a killer and it was way past time he started to live up to that title again. It was time to remind the world – and men like Ruiz – why Hawkeye was to be fucking  _feared._

But then he heard a voice. A voice he knew better than any other voice in the world. A voice that belonged to a man that knew  _him_  better than anyone else in the world.

" _You're stronger now…you won't lose yourself."_

Clint stopped pressing the blade down, but didn't remove it.

" _I know you, Clint. I know who you are, better than you do sometimes."_

He felt a tremor run through the hand holding the knife.

" _That's the difference – it's why you aren't and never were anything like them."_

That voice.

" _You're not losing it."_

He blinked and Reed's face swam in and out of focus.

" _You are Clint fucking Barton. Your future is defined by what you do_ _ **now**_ _, not what you've done in the past."_

Phil.

Phil who believed Clint was better than he was. More than he was. Stronger than he was.

Phil who always believed – believed in something Clint never could – believed in  _him_.

Clint jerked the knife away from Reed's neck and slammed the hilt into his temple instead.

The hand around Clint's throat dropped away like it was made of stone and Clint scrambled back, letting the knife fall into the dirt as he pushed himself away from the unconscious man and collapsed wearily on his back.

He stared up at the dark sky and barely noticed that the entire crowd had fallen silent.

This was it. It was over now, one way or another. He'd made his choice. And even though he knew Ruiz was probably making his way into The Ring to put a bullet through his head, he knew that for once in his pathetic excuse for a life, he'd made the right choice. The choice a  _good_  man would make. A choice that Phil would be proud of.

Even if it felt foreign, like it didn't fit him. Even if it went against every instinct and every desire. He'd made it and there was no going back.

It was only when he realized he could hear footsteps drawing closer that he really realized the crowd was deathly silent. Whether it was shock or disappointment at the turn of events, Clint wasn't sure.

Before he could contemplate it for very long, Ruiz appeared above him. Clint didn't bother trying to rise or even move before speaking.

"You can do whatever the hell you want to me. I'm not gonna kill for you."

Because Ruiz had gotten it wrong. Hawkeye  _was_  a killer, a murderer. But he would never be owned or controlled, not by a man like Ruiz. Even when he was at his worst, Hawkeye had killed because  _he_  chose to, not because he was forced or told to.

Whether that made him a worse man or better, Clint didn't know. All he knew was that he had made his choice – a choice not to be controlled. Phil, without even being here, had given him the strength to make it.

Ruiz's lips twisted into a cruel smirk as he looked down at him.

"Get him up."

Hands came out of nowhere to grip his biceps and haul him off the ground. Once he was vertical – unfortunately probably only staying that way because of the two goons holding him up – Ruiz stepped closer meeting his eyes coldly. Clint just stared back and waited. Making a move right now would be suicide. He had to bide his time and wait for an opening…if one ever came.

"Looks like I was right about you."

Clint held Ruiz's gaze and felt a weary smirk turn up the corner of his mouth.

"No…you just don't know me like you thought you did. Fact is, you don't know a damn thing."

Ruiz hummed patronizingly and gave Clint one last scathing look.

"Get him out of here. I'll follow shortly." A dark glint lit Ruiz's eyes as his lips spread into a cruel smirk. "While you wait for me, show our 'friend' how we deal with traitors."

If the roughness with which Clint was escorted out of the arena was anything to go by, Clint knew he wasn't going to enjoy what came next.

* * *

Phil stared blankly out the front window of the jet, seeing the sky, but not  _seeing_  it. No matter how many times he told himself to just think about something else, _anything_  else, he couldn't. He couldn't get his mind to focus on anything else…anything but his smart-ass, sarcastic, anti-social, self-loathing, tough-as-nails, smart-as-shit agent.

And it wasn't the bad times either. If he could just remember the bad times, it would be easier. It would be easier if all he could think about were the near-death experiences and the angry arguments. But no – no, when he needed those memories the most to temper the devastation, they were nowhere to be found.

Instead, all his damn memory could come up with were the  _good_  times. The ones that made the loss he felt suddenly feel like it was consuming him completely.

* * *

_He stepped into the mouth of the alley and observed the young man before him. The boy appeared to be standing by pure will alone at the moment, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the dumpster beside him in an effort to stay vertical._

_Before Phil had a chance to announce himself, the young man spoke – more growled – harshly at him without facing him._

" _Verschwinde!" (Walk away!)_

_It was the first time he'd heard Clint Barton's voice, and damn it if the kid didn't sound like he was all he was rumored to be and more. There was strength, power, threat, and intelligence all wrapped up in the tone of that one snapped command._

_Phil stepped closer, confident this young man could be the future of SHIELD._

" _Clint Barton."_

_He saw no noticeable reaction to the use of his given name except for the young assassin taking a measured step backwards._

" _Du hast den Falschen." (You've got the wrong man.)_

_Phil resisted the urge to smirk as he continued to approach._

" _We both know that's not true, Barton. Even if you haven't gone by that name in a year."_

_Phil stopped his approach when the young man brought his gun up, a silent warning to stop advancing. Phil put a hand up placating. The last thing he wanted was to spook the kid into doing something rash._

" _You don't want to do that."_

" _Oh no?" Barton huffed a laugh tinged with pain. Phil took the moment to scan him for obvious injuries, but it was too dark in the alley to see anything but the blood on the young man's face._

" _No." Phil put his eyes back on Barton's. "For one, I'm wearing Kevlar."_

_Barton's response was quick and sharp._

" _Won't matter if I shoot for the head."_

_Phil couldn't help but smirk. He had absolutely no doubt that if pushed, Barton would do just that. And if Phil knew anything about the young assassin, he knew he wouldn't miss. His smirk only seemed to annoy the archer and his eyes narrowed to reflect the sentiment._

" _You won't do that." Phil said._

" _Why the hell not?" It came out as a challenge, one Barton sounded like he was preparing to meet._

_Time to play his trump card._

" _Because you're still trying to figure out who I am and why I'm here and most importantly," he cocked his head slightly as he took in Barton's reaction, "if anyone stateside knows where you are."_

_The kid actually flinched, though it could have had more to do with his back hitting the alley wall than Phil's words. Either way, showing that visible reaction seemed to push the assassin over the edge._

" _Maybe I don't care."_

_He thumbed back the hammer on his gun._

" _Barton…" Phil shook his head in exasperation._

_Apparently this kid just wasn't going to do this the easy way._

_Blood dripped into Barton's eyes and he blinked. In that moment, Phil moved. He had the young man's gun a moment later and everything in the archer's countenance darkened dangerously. Wanting to de-escalate the situation, Phil pointed the gun at the ground._

" _We don't have to do it this way." He tried._

" _Where'd be the fun in that?" A smirk lit the assassin's lips and Phil was struck for a moment at how natural the expression seemed on the young man's face. It seemed so much more natural than the dark anger that had been there a moment ago. His moment of distraction cost him the gun – lost due to a well-executed kick. They engaged quickly after that, but it wasn't until the kid ran up the wall and back flipped over Phil's head that Phil tried to talk him down again. It was too impressive of a move to just ignore._

" _Very impressive. You're as good as I've heard."_

_Arrogance lit the young man's expression as he snapped back a taunting reply._

" _You don't know the half of it."_

_Phil watched him eye the alley opening._

" _I just want to talk, kid. We don't have to do this."_

" _I don't like talking."_

_Phil wasn't sure that was entirely true, given the amount of sarcasm the kid had sent his way. But they fought again just the same. And when Barton started gearing up to attack_ _**again** _ _even after Phil had thoroughly gained the upper hand, he couldn't shake his admiration._

" _You_ _ **are**_ _persistent."_

_The kid attacked again anyway and Phil decided it was time to stop messing around before the teen well and truly hurt himself. He maneuvered him into a choke hold and tightened his arms just enough to make his point._

" _All I'd have to do is squeeze." He pat his hand against the back of the kid's head sarcastically. "And you'd be dead."_

" _No shit."_

_Even facing possible death, the kid was spitting sarcasm. He certainly was something else._

" _Instead, I'm going to let you go. Don't do anything stupid."_

_Phil pushed him away and watched the archer subtly pull a knife from his boot as he stumbled. But he didn't throw it, didn't try to use it. That's when Phil knew he had him._

" _Who the hell_ _ **are**_ _you?" The kid's voice sounded terrible and Phil wondered if he'd squeezed too hard a moment ago. But there would be time for treating injuries later._

" _Clint Barton," he started once again, "My name is Agent Phil Coulson."_

* * *

Phil blinked away the memory. Their first meeting hadn't exactly been full of laughter and rainbows, but it had been the beginning. He'd learned so much about Clint in that short exchange. It was the first time he'd seen the kid's inherent stubbornness and strength. It was the first time he'd been exposed to his chronic sarcasm. And it had been the first time he'd been absolutely certain Clint Barton could not only be saved, but was worth saving. And he'd known, even back then, that Clint was going to change the way SHIELD did covert operations.

He just hadn't realized at the time that the damn kid was going to change Phil's life while he was at it. Phil thought he'd known what fear was. He thought he'd known what it meant to feel protective over something, over  _someone_. He'd thought he'd known what it meant to feel responsible for someone.

He thought he'd known a lot of things…

* * *

_Phil moved silently around to Barton's usual place on the rooftop, fully expecting to see the kid sitting and staring listlessly out into the night. That was Barton's usual M.O. in the night time hours when most everyone else in the New York SHIELD base was sleeping._

_Most 18 year olds Phil had ever heard of loved sleeping, but not Barton. He seemed to do whatever he could to avoid it for as long as he could. It led to the archer operating in a state of near-constant exhaustion. Though, Phil had to give him credit – Barton never seemed to lose a step, no matter how tired he was._

_On the nights Phil ventured up to the roof to keep silent companionship with his young charge, Barton always knew he was there long before Phil had a chance to announce himself. That being so, Phil had given up attempts at any stealth beyond that which came to him naturally._

_So when he rounded the corner to see Barton sprawled on his back with his legs still dangling over the edge of the roof top and his head pillowed on his folded arm, Phil was surprised. He was usually lucky to get a peripheral glance on a good day. Barton allowing himself to appear so open, was nothing short of shocking._

_But what really knocked Phil back on his heels, was that the archer was sleeping – deeply sleeping._

_In the three and a half months_ _since Barton had come to SHIELD, Phil had only seen him sleeping twice. Once when the young assassin had worked himself into such a state of exhaustion that he fell asleep during a study session. And then there was the time when Phil had discovered Barton slept in air vents._

_Twice in three and a half months._

_Now three times._

_He expected Barton to wake up, to sense his presence. But instead, the kid just kept breathing evenly and sleeping peacefully._

_Phil almost backed away and left him be. The boy so rarely slept as it was, Phil didn't want to risk waking him by staying. But something pulled at him. Something deep in his gut urged him to stay, to just wait._

_Phil didn't know what it was, what instinct was calling to him, but he listened to it._

_He drifted closer, eyes pinned on Barton's face, and ears tuned to his soft breaths._

_Nothing seemed wrong._

_Until suddenly everything did._

_The change was so sudden that Phil almost stepped back._

_What had been soft, even breaths suddenly grew stilted and harsh. Barton's lax and smooth features suddenly twisted in pain and fear. Every muscle in the archer's body seemed to tense as he curled slightly away from Phil, turning his face into the crook of his elbow._

" _Barton?" The call was out before Phil could stop it. He was moving forward before he could think about it. He was reaching for Barton's shoulder before he could realize that was a very bad idea._

_All he'd been able to think about was stopping that look of pain, of dispelling that fear. He wanted to comfort him and calm him._

_It was only after he locked his hand around Barton's shoulder and the archer's posture shifted abruptly from one of fear to one of aggression, that Phil realized his mistake. He threw himself backwards and only barely avoided the blade of Barton's knife as the kid twisted and swung it in a lethal arc._

_Phil's hands dug hard into the rough rooftop as he flung them back to break his fall and he watched through wide eyes as Barton shifted away and into a defensive crouch in the amount of time it took Phil to draw in a breath._

" _Barton." Phil stated firmly, raising a sore hand in front of himself soothingly. "It's Coulson."_

_Barton's breaths were coming in harsh, sharp pants as he stared across the small distance between them, knife still held out defensively. Phil could barely see his eyes in the darkness, but he knew anyway that Barton wasn't really seeing him yet._

" _Barton." He said it again, calmly and soothingly._

_The archer shifted, head titling very slightly. Then all at once, the archer almost sagged, dropping back onto his butt and bracing his arms wearily on his bent knees._

" _What the hell, Coulson?" It came out as more of an accusation than a question, but Phil didn't let the tone bother him. Instead he explained himself, wanting to dispel the last of the tension in Barton's shoulders._

" _I came to check on you. You were asleep."_

" _So you decided to give me a heart attack?" The sarcasm was a defense mechanism and it was betrayed by the white-knuckled grip Barton still had on his knife. He was still spooked by the nightmare and the abrupt awakening._

_For some reason Phil's heart suddenly ached. This kid was_ _**18** _ _years old. He shouldn't sleep like a soldier in the trenches, with a knife in his hand. A touch on the shoulder shouldn't produce an instinct of aggressive defense. He wondered, not for the first time, what kind of life Clint Barton had led before Phil found him. He knew the basics, the broad pieces. He knew what profession Barton had chosen. He knew an outline of his life before the Army. But he didn't know the details. He didn't know what had made him run away and join the circus. He didn't know what had ultimately made him leave the same circus five years later. He didn't know why, after getting outed as under-aged and booted from the Army, he chose to become a contract assassin._

_He just didn't know, because Barton wasn't talking._

_But not knowing didn't keep Phil from wanting to fix it. From wanting to help Barton clear the shadows from his eyes._

" _You were dreaming and it…seemed bad. So I tried to wake you up."_

_Barton scoffed._

" _You kidding? I was skipping through a field of cotton candy with rainbows shooting out of my ass."_

_Phil huffed a chuckle and carefully shifted to sit in his usual place on the roof's ledge._

" _I'm sure."_

_Barton watched him for a moment before sheathing his knife and moving to sit in_ _**his** _ _usual spot a few feet to Phil's left. He didn't say anything and neither did Phil. But a few minutes later the tension started to drain from the archer's shoulders and Phil let himself believe he'd somehow helped with that._

* * *

Phil sighed. Had that really been over a year ago? Had Clint really come so far since then? It was hard to believe sometimes, that so much time had passed when it felt like just yesterday he was walking into that alley and meeting the smart-mouthed trouble maker for the first time.

And now, Phil would give anything just to hear another unsolicited smart ass comment. To be left to cover Clint's butt in the wake of another well-executed, though ill-mannered, prank.

He would give  _anything_  to just have more time.

* * *

The shove to his back sent Clint stumbling into his 'cell' – which was, in fact, just an emptied-out storage room with a padlock on the outside. He righted his balance quickly enough, but the effort was wasted when he turned right into a blinding right hook that sent him spinning to the ground.

He wanted to pound his hands against the floor and yell about how un-fucking-funny this all had become. Whatever amusement he'd gotten out of the irony of his current mission's eerie parallel to what had happened, was gone now. Now he was just pissed. And he was hurting.

Bryan had once likened him to a wounded animal when injured. Told him he was dangerous and unpredictable and therefore unwelcome on the general training grounds when he was in such a mood.

The man hadn't been wrong.

Clint pushed himself off the floor and dove at the nearest of his escorts. His shoulder – and he was very careful to make sure it was his left instead of his right – slammed into the man's gut and set him crashing back against the wall. Clint sharply drew his knee up into the man's groin even as he pushed away. A sharp twist of his torso and his elbow cracked into the man's jaw and set him down to his knees.

Clint nearly growled when arms locked around him from behind and pulled him back.

Instead, he used it. He braced his back against the chest behind him and kicked out with both of his feet at the man who was still trying to push himself up from the ground. Clint's bare heels slammed into his teeth and sent his head snapping back. He dropped like a stone, but Clint didn't watch him fall.

He drew his chin down to his chest and then sharply threw his head back.

Bones crunched as he connected with the nose of the man holding onto him. The arms around his torso loosened and Clint used the opportunity to plant his feet and throw all the weight he could into a hard swing of his elbow back into the man's gut. As his opponent coughed out the air in his lungs, Clint turned, using the momentum of the spin to add force to the closed fist he threw into the man's temple.

Clint turned to the door even as his opponent dropped and was met with the sight of two taser darts flying towards his chest. He didn't even have time to curse before they hit, digging into his already-bruised flesh.

The surge of electricity locked up every one of his muscles and sent him to the ground as heavily as a falling sack of bricks. Even when the current ended, Clint could only lay there for a moment and try to breathe.

He finally got the room to stop spinning in time to see Damon Ruiz himself lean down and wrap his considerably-sized hand around Clint's throat. He had no choice but to scramble to his feet as Ruiz started pulling him up. He wrapped one of his hands around Ruiz's wrist and clawed at the man's neck with his other.

Clint coughed out what little air was left in his lungs when Ruiz backed him roughly into the wall and cursed in every language that he knew when Ruiz batted away his attacking hand as if it were no more of a nuisance than a fly. But that didn't stop Clint from continuing to fight.

He kicked out and bucked against the wall, but Ruiz held firm. He slowly tightened his grip on Clint's already abused throat until Clint had to go still in order to continue to breathe.

"Fighting is useless. It's over."

"Fuck you."

Ruiz smiled at him and then chuckled mockingly.

"So much fire. You'd have been so useful within my organization."

Clint just scowled at him and mentally ran through various plans to break Ruiz's hold, kill him, and try to escape. All of the plans ended badly.

"I can see you scheming. It's no use. Whoever you were working for, they think you're dead. Whatever hopes you have of holding out until a rescue are wasted."

Clint frowned and blinked at him in vague confusion. He was sure Phil had heard about the explosion, but there would be no reason to believe Clint had been killed in it. Sure his quiver and bow were in the car, but the distinct lack of a body should have sent up some red flags.

"Don't hurt yourself trying to figure it out, my friend. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get things done for the right price. A few hundred dollars was all it took to get me the body of an unfortunate man who'd been walking by the car put in your seat."

Clint still wasn't convinced. Phil wouldn't take a body at face value. He'd want confirmation.

"And do you remember that stretch of unconsciousness you had after we left the blast site? During that time I had our doctor give you a thorough look-over. He catalogued every scar, every old broken bone, even the device in your tooth. A few hundred more dollars bought me a falsified autopsy report. Of course it won't hold up if someone actually comes to claim the body, but you'll really be dead by that point."

Clint didn't know what to say, or do for that matter. No one was coming, they'd have no reason to. He knew the protocol for this type of situation. He was a John Doe in a foreign morgue and that would be how Clint Barton died.

Unless of course, he found a way to escape before his untimely demise became a reality.

"And you can forget any ideas you have of escape. You won't be alive long enough."

Clint pulled weakly at the hand holding his throat captive. Gray was starting to creep in on his vision and he'd really like to avoid passing out. He hadn't even been counting. He should have been counting.

Something over Ruiz's shoulder drew both their attention.

Cohen was saying something, but Clint couldn't quite decipher the words.

"Can't you handle it?" Ruiz snapped. Cohen said something else and suddenly Ruiz's attention was back on Clint. "I'll be back to finish this later. You can spend your last hours contemplating how grave a mistake it was to fuck with me."

With that Clint was released and left to fall to the floor in an ungraceful, wheezing heap.

His determination not to pass out fled as he realized how comfortable a hard floor could be if you were beat to hell and getting up wasn't really a viable option.

* * *

He didn't remember actually passing out. He didn't realize he'd even lost time until a loud thump outside his now closed 'cell' door startled him awake. He glanced around the room, searching for a way to determine how much time had passed. Finding none, he turned his attention back to the door even as he pushed himself to his feet.

He wasn't going to go quietly or passively. If he was going to go down, he was going to find a way to take Ruiz with him. A key scratched in the padlock and then the lock was pulled away.

Clint drew in a breath to fortify himself.

The door slowly swung open.

And it wasn't Ruiz.

It was Boomer.

"Ready to make a jail break?"

* * *

End of Chapter 7

Bam! Surprise! Boomer to the rescue! Are you as surprised as Clint? Some of you aren't, because you made a prediction for something similar. Thoughts? Feelings? Share! Please, I'm a comment addict and I need my fix!

Here's you're preview for tomorrow!

* * *

_A third, and then a fourth bang had him skulking over to the bunkroom door and the sound of wood giving way had him chambering a round in his gun._

_Somebody had actually managed to break into the safe house. If it didn't piss him off so much, he might actually be impressed. As it stood, he didn't have time for this shit._

_There was a louder, rolling thud echoed immediately by a muffled, raspy curse._

_It was all the incentive Phil needed to toe the door open and silently move into the main room. There was a barefoot, darkly dressed figure slowly pushing himself up from the ground. The black hood from the intruder's sweatshirt was pulled so low over his eyes, that it would have been impossible to see his face even if he had been facing him. As it was, he was facing the window he'd apparently just fallen through._

_Phil calmly stepped forward and brought his gun up, sighting the back of the hood._

_"Don't move."_


	8. Surely Heaven Waits For You

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 7:_ **immertreu, Evenstar129, JAKKIE, thiswilldrivemecrazy, Hamham2931, MomoftheShire, hgb, GoldOwl89, Isi7140, bladeandroses,** _and_ **laral**

_To_ **JAKKIE:** _I pick a song that I think fits the theme of the story and also fits Clint. But it's always a song I'm a fan of - though I guess that's obvious lol. This one happens to be one of my all time favorite songs and I've been waiting for a story that would fit it :)_

_To_ **thiswilldrivemecrazy:**   _haha! I think I've heard that before, but didn't remember that until you said it! That just makes me happy lol_

 _To_ **MomoftheShire:**   _you are awesome! You used a Captain America quote in your review!_

_Special thanks to_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their amazing and awesome beta abilities! Dan's voice, as per usual, is from_ **Kylen's** _mouth :D_

_And now we come to Chapter 8! Enjoy!_

* * *

_We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey._

_**Miyazawa Kenji** _

* * *

For a long, silent moment Hawkeye just stared at him in numb shock and it struck Boomer that the young man had probably been prepared to fight whoever came through that door to his last breath. The assassin's understandably exhausted brain seemed to be having a hard time changing tracks now that Boomer was the one staring at him instead of an executioner.

With a wary glance over his shoulder, Boomer stepped into the room. They didn't have much time before someone noticed something was wrong. He needed to get Hawkeye moving. But looking the kid over, 'moving' didn't seem like something he was going to really be up to doing.

Beat to hell seemed to be putting it mildly. Boomer wasn't even sure how the kid was even conscious, much less vertical right now. As it was, he had one hand braced against the wall, and the posture surprisingly didn't make him appear any less threatening.

Boomer put one hand up in a non-threatening manner and used the other to pull his black hoodie off.

"Hey, we gotta move, man. Put this on."

He held the hoodie out like it was a peace offering and then just waited.

It took a moment, but all at once Hawkeye seemed to accept that Boomer was there to help and he reached to take the hoodie. Boomer winced in sympathy as the archer slowly threaded his arms through and then eased the sweatshirt over his head. It was probably a size too big for him, but it would get the job done. When he was satisfied that the task had done nothing but make Hawk go a little more pale, Boomer moved back to the door and checked the hallway.

"I rigged a…uh… _distraction_. But we only have about two minutes to get you to the fence. Can you move?"

When the archer didn't respond, Boomer glanced over his shoulder.

"Jesus!" Boomer reared back in surprise when he found Hawkeye standing at his shoulder. He hadn't heard him move. "You are one creepy little bastard, you know that?"

Hawkeye arched an eyebrow and ignored the comment, changing the subject instead.

"You got a weapon?"

Boomer winced again. The assassin sounded like he'd been gargling glass.

"You sound  _and_ look like shit, man." Boomer informed him as he pulled his knife from its sheath and handed it over hilt first.

"I've gotten my ass kicked several times in the last twenty four hours  _and_  nearly got blown to hell." A wicked little smirk took up residence on Hawkeye's face. "What's your excuse?"

Boomer shot him a flat look and stepped out into the hallway.

* * *

Clint followed behind Boomer, staying close at his shoulder and keeping one hand braced on the wall in an effort to keep his steps steady and even. He mostly kept his eyes on their surroundings, looking for threats, but occasionally he found himself studying the back of Boomer's head.

That tended to happen when they passed an unconscious – maybe dead, it was hard to tell without taking time to look – body. The other man had busted his way in to where Clint was being held and was now escorting Clint out. Nobody but Phil had ever done something like that for him.

The whole thing had him wondering...

"Did you draw Ruiz away?" He asked the question suddenly and without warning, but Boomer seemed to have been waiting for him to draw that conclusion and, save for a mischievous grin tossed over his shoulder, kept moving.

"A few well-placed words amongst the guys trying to collect on their bets started a pretty big uproar. Big enough that nobody was gonna be satisfied until Ruiz came and declared a winner for your fight. It won't take him long to get them calmed down though, so we need to move quickly."

Clint obediently increased his pace to match Boomer's.

"How long ago was the fight?"

Boomer shot him a worried glance as they exited the building – Clint absently identified it as the Command Center – and silently moved along the buildings perimeter towards the back fence.

"You lose time?"

Clint scowled at the memory of his last encounter with Ruiz and nodded silently. Boomer sighed deeply – the look of worry was stronger now – and answered.

"Only about 15 minutes."

They reached the back fence without incident and Boomer looked up at the barbed wire circling the top.

"Getting over that is gonna be a bitch, but it's the only way out unless you have wire cutters."

Clint was looking at the barbed wire too and didn't reply but to give Boomer a sarcastic glance.

"I'd just set a charge, but I don't want them knowing which way you went. So over is the only option."

Clint nodded and couldn't hold back a groan as he peeled Boomer's sweatshirt off his torso. The explosive's expert seemed to catch his train of thought and took the sweatshirt. His greater height let him jump and spread the sweatshirt over the barbed wire.

Then he crouched with his back against the fence and interlocked his fingers.

"All aboard."

Clint didn't waste time lifting his left foot into Boomer's hands and bracing his hands on the man's shoulders. Then he jumped at the same time Boomer lifted. Clint caught the edge of the fence and quickly threw his torso onto the sweatshirt. He was able to use gravity then to propel the rest of his body safely over the sweatshirt shielded barbed wire.

His landing was…less than graceful. He ended up having to catch his hands in the fence to keep from completely wiping out in the dirt and even so, he got  _really_  close. He supposed that doing it all with a knife in his hand and not stabbing himself was something to be proud of. Once he felt like he was at least semi-stable, he looked back through the chain-link at Boomer.

"Remember to watch out for the perimeter patrol. Those dogs are bred to be mean. Reyes is on patrol tonight, but I wouldn't bet on him being as friendly as me. Can you find your way back to the main road?"

Clint frowned.

"You're not coming?"

Boomer didn't answer as he jumped to retrieve the sweatshirt and then balled it up and tossed it over the fence.

"Put that back on." The other man instructed as he glanced at his watch and then looked over his shoulder.

"Boomer."

His friend ignored him again.

"The distraction I rigged should be going off right about…" A chunk of the fence on the opposite side of the compound suddenly exploded. Boomer smirked. "Now."

"Boomer!" Clint snapped, his grip on the chain link tightening.

The explosive's expert finally met his eyes and waited for him to say what was on his mind.

"You have to come with me. They're gonna know you helped me."

Boomer waved him off without bothering to reply.

"No one else would have, man…they're gonna know." Clint insisted.

"They might  _suspect_ ," Boomer smirked dismissively, "but they can't prove…"

"Ruiz doesn't care what he can  _prove_." Clint retorted sharply. " _Trust_  me."

Boomer's gaze softened as he gave Clint's badly abused body a quick once over.

"You have to come with me." Clint tried again.

Boomer just shook his head.

"I can't, Hawk. I've got a few more distractions I need to rig. I gotta make sure you have time to get clear."

Clint felt desperation start to mingle with the urgency he felt.

"They'll kill you."

And someone else would be dead because of him – someone who didn't deserve it.

Boomer smirked and the expression was painfully familiar. Clint recognized it because he wore the same smirk himself every day.

"They'll have to catch me first. And with some C-4 and blasting caps at my disposal, they might not find that so easy to do."

"Boomer…" Clint recognized bravado when he saw it. It was the mask he wore when he didn't want Phil or anyone else to worry about him. It was also usually when they should be worrying the most.

"Go, Hawk."

"I'm not leaving you," Clint insisted irrationally. He looked up the length of the fence, trying to decide if he could scale it on his own in his current state.

"Yes, you are." Boomer's voice hardened. "You are not  _dying_ here. I won't let you. You couldn't get back over that fence right now even if I wanted you to. So  _go_."

"No."

"Goddamn it, Hawkeye!" Boomer slammed his palm against the fence. "They will kill us both if you don't get out of here. Do you want that? Do you want me to die for nothing? Do you want to make this whole rescue attempt a waste?  _GO!"_

He slammed his palms against the chain-link one more time and Clint finally forced himself to back up a step. Boomer was right. If he didn't go now, the risk his friend took would be wasted.

"I'm coming back." He promised seriously as he backed towards the cover of the trees.

Boomer shook his head.

"Don't you  _dare_."

Before Clint could reply to that, Boomer turned and jogged away.

Clint fought the urge to follow after him and shrugged back into the hoodie instead. Then he ignored every instinct he had that was telling him to stay – to fight alongside Boomer. He was under no illusions. He knew that staying meant he had a more than likely chance of this becoming his last fight. The only upside would be that he'd at least try to take Ruiz down with him. But in his current state, even that wasn't guaranteed. And letting Ruiz get away – even just  _risking_ it – Clint couldn't bring himself to do that. He couldn't bring himself to fail his mission.

He would escape, patch himself up, and regain what strength he could.

Then he'd come back and put an end to Ruiz once and for all.

* * *

Boots.

He'd really come to take boots for granted. There had been a time, back at Carson's and before, where wearing shoes had been something Clint didn't often bother with. He moved better without them – still did if he was honest. When you spent your days doing acrobatics and practicing archery, shoes just weren't a necessity.

Then, when he was thirteen, he'd ended up putting a shard of broken glass through his foot. After Brit had taken him to get stitched up, the acrobat had warned him there'd be hell to pay if he ever caught Clint out of the tents without shoes again.

Then had come the Army, where boots were practically glued to your feet. And in the year that followed, moving around the world as a contract assassin, he'd slept with his boots on. He'd lived in a constant state of paranoia, ready to move at the first sign of trouble.

He'd been living ready to run.

Then he'd come to SHIELD. It had taken  _months_ , probably several more than it should have, for him to stop sleeping with his boots on while he was on base. The first time he could remember was after getting back from the Andes. He'd been tired and recovering and had gone to his bunk room, kicked off his boots and climbed onto the nearest bunk without much thought.

But a lot of things had changed with the Andes mission.

Phil had come for him. Phil had saved him even though it went against protocol, even though it had put his own life at risk to do so. He'd  _come._ And Clint had realized that for the first time in a long time…he wasn't alone any more.

After that, when he was on base at least, his boots got kicked off before he climbed into bed. On missions his ingrained paranoia kicked in again. Phil didn't question it, just accepted it, like he accepted everything else.

Right now, running through the woods with rocks and sticks poking into his feet with every step, Clint would give anything for a pair of boots. Hell, a pair of  _anything._  Because running when you were already beat to hell was hard enough, but toss in bare feet and hazardous terrain, and the speed of his progress was downright  _embarrassing_.

He was still a good mile from the main road. Which meant he still had a good mile with the risk of running into a perimeter patrol and the damn dogs that they would have with them. And what did Clint have to protect himself with? A knife. Boomer's knife.

When he heard the first snarling bark, Clint drew up to a skidding halt and rolled his eyes in dark humor.

"Seriously? Couldn't just do it the easy way, just once?" He muttered to himself as he scanned the darkness around him. Another snarling bark, much closer this time, had him kicking into a sprint. On a good day, he could run a mile in the time it took most people to run half of that. But today wasn't a good day, and he was willing to bet the dog he could now hear tearing through the trees after him could run faster than him even  _on_  a good day.

He was going to have to do something. He couldn't outrun it. He probably had seconds until its claws were tearing into his back and its teeth were snapping for his jugular. So Clint did the only thing he could think of.

He stopped and turned.

He got a chest full of fur and barely managed to get his right forearm up in time to get it between the dog's head and his throat. The force of the collision sent him slamming onto his back and he'd barely had time to register the pain  _that_ caused before the dog was locking its strong jaw around the only thing it could get to. Clint's forearm.

The bones snapped almost immediately and it was all Clint could do not to shout out in pain because  _good God_  between the teeth tearing his flesh and the bones breaking it hurt like  _hell_.

But as much as it hurt, Clint was well acquainted with pain. He'd endured far more than his fair share in the nineteen years he'd been alive. And he had learned a long time ago that no matter how much he wanted to curl into a fetal position and whimper, he wouldn't.

Because he could take it.

So he used the dog's focus on his arm to his advantage. He buried the knife to the hilt in the damn thing's neck. Then he pulled the knife free and did it again. When the dog's jaw still stayed locked around his forearm, he did it a third time. And  _finally_  the damn thing went limp, dropping down on his chest in a heap of fur.

Clint only took the time to draw in one breath before he started squirming out from under the Rottweiler. He had to use a stick to pry the dog's jaw open, but was able to get his arm free in under a thirty seconds. Then he pulled the knife free, wiped it on the dog's fur, and stood.

He turned to come face to face with an automatic rifle pointed at his chest.

He looked from the gun to its owner and swallowed.

Reyes.

The older man's expression gave nothing away, but his dark eyes were momentarily conflicted. And then he lowered the gun, aiming it at the ground.

"Go,  _pendejo._ "

Clint didn't need to be told twice. He took the reprieve Reyes was offering him without questioning it and turned. Then it was more running.

He arrived at the road abruptly, stumbling slightly over the sudden surface change as he hit the asphalt. A blaring car horn had him turning to face the headlights baring down on him.

He slid the knife into his sleeve and put both his hands up, beckoning the driver to stop. He must have looked innocent enough in his baggy hoodie and black cargo pants because instead of swerving around him or running him over, the driver stopped.

The driver pushed his door open and climbed out of the car, staring at Clint with wide eyes.

He said something in Egyptian Arabic, but Clint hadn't spent enough time in the city to learn much. So instead of responding he moved towards the driver quickly, sliding the knife out as he did.

"Sorry, but I need your car."

He knew the man likely didn't understand him and started protesting fearfully when he caught sight of the knife.

"Sorry, man." Clint waved the knife in a half-assed threatening motion and when the man stumbled fearfully away from his car, Clint slid into the driver's side.

As soon as there was no longer a knife being waved at him, the man seemed to lose his fear and just get angry. Clint could hear him yelling as he sped away. He felt bad, he really did. But he didn't have time to play nice.

* * *

By the time he made it back to the city it was close to three in the morning. Exhaustion pulled at him, but he didn't dare stop. He ditched the car a few blocks from the safe house and hoofed it the rest of the way.

By the time he got there, he was too relieved to be annoyed at the amount of time it took him to cross a measly five blocks. With a broken arm and collarbone and probably some matching broken ribs, climbing to a roof was pretty much out of the question and jumping from rooftop to rooftop was just not gonna happen. For once in his life, he actually moved faster on the ground than he would have in the air. Although, making his way through city streets and alleys in bare feet was no picnic and he was fairly certain he had at least one piece of broken glass embedded in his left foot.

So that safe house door may as well have been the gateway to heaven for as happy as he was to see it. He slid the panel hiding the palm reader aside with a weary sigh and lamented for a moment that the reader was keyed to his  _right_ palm print, not his left. With a wince he used his left hand to carefully lift his right arm and guide it towards the palm reader. He ignored the shaking of the broken limb and clamped down on the inside of his lower lip with his teeth when the pressure of pushing his hand flat against the reader sent shockwaves of pain up through his entire arm.

He waited impatiently as the scanner worked and tucked his right arm close to his chest as soon as it was done. When the scanner beeped, he reached for the door handle instinctively only to nearly walk into it when it didn't open. Confused, he looked back at the scanner, blinking dumbly when instead of his name lit up in green lettering, he saw the words 'access denied' lit up in red.

He stared at it for a moment longer before the pieces clicked into place.

He was dead.

Ruiz's stunt had apparently worked just as the man had intended. SHIELD thought he was dead. They'd cleared him from the system just as protocol dictated.

"Well, shit."

He stepped back from the door and could only stare at it for a long moment. For a wild, irrational second he almost knocked, convinced in that moment that if he did, Phil would open the door and be there waiting for him.

But if SHIELD thought he was dead, then Phil did too. That meant there was nobody waiting for him inside. If he wanted help – and as much as he hated to admit it, he kind of  _needed_ it – he was going to have to get inside.

He was going to have to break into a SHIELD safe house.

As if his list of impossible tasks on this mission wasn't long enough.

With another sigh, he scanned the door and the frame surrounding it hoping to find a weak spot. Of course, there wasn't one. That would have just been too easy.

"The easy way would be nice…just  _once._ "

He headed around to the side of the safe house, looking for a window. He knew the glass would be bullet proof. But the frame wouldn't be. And if he was lucky, it would be wood, like the building itself.

Wood could be broken. And if he could break the window frame, he could dislodge the window and get in that way.

He circled the building and finally caught sight of a window. The only one on the first level. He quickened his steps towards it, hissing when his foot found something sharp on the ground. He ignored the new pain and reached for the window frame.

Wood. Thank God.

It was older too, that was a lucky break. He ran his left hand over the frame, looking for the weakest point. He found it at the bottom left corner – a split in the wood.

A couple solid hits at the perfect angle and he might actually be able to pull this off.

On a normal day – a day where his feet had boots on them – he'd just kick at the frame until he broke it. But he didn't have boots.

He scanned the area around him, hoping the meager luck of the split frame would hold up.

And it did.

At the very edge of the alley he was in, almost hidden in the shadows, was his salvation.

A broken piece of pipe.

* * *

Phil stared at the wall in front of him, eyes fixed on the picture of Damon Ruiz he had pinned up in the middle of a mess of other papers. Hell, he had his entire copy of the mission file pinned up across the bunk room wall in the safe house.

But it was Ruiz's picture that kept drawing his attention and keeping it.

This was the man that he had sent Clint to kill. The man that had killed Clint instead.

He was the man Phil was going to kill.

He'd arrived in Cairo and, of course, gone straight to the morgue. But apparently, visitors weren't allowed at two o'clock in the morning, no matter what badge you were waving. He was told, very crisply, to come back at 8 a.m., when the head of the morgue was there. Then the attendant would be  _happy_ to show him whatever body he wanted.

So short of breaking in, Phil would have to wait.  _Hell,_  he wanted to break in. But SHIELD was supposed to be about discretion. It  _was_  a covert agency, after all. And the last thing they needed was anybody looking too closely at a missing body and what it was tied to.

So he would wait. He would wait and he would plan. Because once Clint was back where he belonged, with Phil, Damon Ruiz was going to die. The man just didn't know it yet.

The loud, cracking thud that rang through the safe house nearly had him jumping out of his skin. The second, matching sound that followed barely a breath later had him moving to retrieve his side arm from the small table next to the cot he'd claimed as his own.

A third, and then a fourth bang had him skulking over to the bunk room door and the sound of wood giving way had him chambering a round in his gun. He'd been so out of it when he arrived, he didn't even remember if he'd activated the safe house's security measures...he was pretty sure he hadn't.

And now somebody had actually managed to break into the safe house. If it didn't piss him off so much, he might actually be impressed. As it stood, he didn't have time for this shit.

There was a louder, rolling thud echoed immediately by a muffled, raspy curse.

It was all the incentive Phil needed to toe the door open and silently move into the main room. There was a barefoot, darkly dressed figure slowly pushing himself up from the ground. The black hood from the intruder's sweatshirt was pulled so low over his eyes, that it would have been impossible to see his face even if he  _had_ been facing him. As it was, he was facing the window he'd apparently just fallen through.

Phil calmly stepped forward and brought his gun up, sighting the back of the hood.

"Don't move."

The intruder, who had only just managed to find his feet, froze with one hand still stretched toward the ground from where he'd used it to push himself up.

"You picked the wrong house on the wrong night."

Phil brushed his finger across the trigger guard and resisted the urge to shift it onto the trigger itself. This no-name thief wasn't worth shedding blood, no matter how much Phil wanted to make someone bleed at the moment.

He watched as the hood twitched as if the intruder had turned his head a little. Then the brazen little bastard started to turn to face him.

"Move another inch and see how that works out for you. I'll tell you right now, you aren't gonna like it nearly as much as I will."

But the intruder kept turning despite the threat.

"Wait." God the man sounded like he'd been swallowing nails. Judging by the bare feet, he was down on his luck. But Phil didn't have time for charity cases, not now.

"You really going to make me make good on that threat?"

A shaking left hand stretched out placatingly towards him and then moved towards the hood.

"Jesus…Phil…just…don't shoot me." The intruder pleaded, voice still sounding raw and painful…and knowing Phil's name…what the hell?

The man slid the hood back off his head, revealing a mess of filthy, blood-matted blonde hair and a pair of blood-shot, blue-gray eyes that Phil would have known anywhere. He swore his heart stopped beating and his blood froze in his veins.

There, alive and breathing and standing right in front of him was Clint.

 _His_ Clint.

"Clint…" Phil wasn't sure why that was the only coherent word he could force out of his mouth, but no matter how much he tried, it was all he could come up with.

Clint took a slow careful step towards him, left hand stretched out placatingly again, and a deep wince crossed his features as he did. The expression faded away just as quickly as it appeared, but it hit a chord deep in Phil's soul. Clint was hurt. He was hurt and Phil still had a gun pointing at him.

But Clint was supposed to be dead.

"It was a lie, Phil." Clint limped a step closer. "Ruiz paid off the coroner. Seemed to think I tried to kill him with a car bomb and didn't take that too well."

He watched Clint's eyes flick to the gun then back to meet Phil's.

"The report…" Phil stuttered his hand tightening on the gun, unwilling to accept that it was just this easy. That Clint was just  _alive._ "You were dead."

"Yeah…" Clint huffed a painfully sounding breath. "Seems the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Any other day, Phil would have smiled. Quoting Mark Twain at a time like this was just so… _Clint_. The kid didn't know how to not try and lighten a situation. But Phil didn't want the situation lightened. He let the gun fall to his side, held in a loose grip and just stared as Clint continued to slowly – and seemingly painfully – move across the room. Phil knew he should be moving too, going to help Clint to a chair, to look him over and see what kind of injuries they were dealing with.

But he couldn't make himself move. He could barely make himself breath. The only reason he knew his heart was still beating was because he felt it pounding against his rib cage.

Clint was alive.

Minutes ago, the opposite had been the most painful certainty of his life. Now he felt like he couldn't catch up, like he was stuck in this limbo where he couldn't react or move or do  _anything_  but stare.

"Phil?" Clint's voice drew him out of his daze. His voice wasn't right, in so many ways it wasn't right. It was gravely and raw. It was weak and fading.

Phil blinked and the world sharpened into staggering focus.  _Weak and fading._  He could suddenly see every bruise, every cut, scrape and smear of blood. He could see Clint's legs giving out beneath him.

Clint's left hand reached out, grasping at the straight back of the wooden chair sitting to his left in the small kitchen area. His hand wrapped around the chair just as Phil moved. And the chair tipped back under Clint's descending weight when Phil was still two steps away. Clint's knees cracked into the floor, the chair clattering down next to him, but then Phil was there, catching his shoulders before his torso could hit the ground.

Phil wasn't prepared for the sharp cry of pain that broke from his agent's raw throat and almost jerked his hands away when he felt bone shift under the hand he had on Clint's right shoulder. Instead he turned Clint's body, guiding his upper back against Phil's arm and taking on his weight.

"Hey, hey…you're okay. I gotcha." Phil soothed as he carefully shifted, all but cradling the injured teen to him as he visually assessed the injuries he could see. "You gotta tell me what I'm looking at, kid. Tell me where you've got it the worst."

Clint's head dropped heavily against Phil's shoulder and his sweaty, hot forehead turned into Phil's neck, almost like he was seeking out comfort. But Phil shook that thought off because Clint didn't do that. Clint rarely accepted comfort when it was offered and  _never_  sought it out.

"Prob'ly easier to list what's not hurt."

Phil ignored the weary sarcasm in the tone and took the information for what it was – as close to an admittance of how bad he was hurt as Clint was likely to get. Keeping Clint supported with one arm, Phil started using his free hand to carefully start feeling for injuries.

A shaking, bloody hand suddenly latched onto the front of Phil's t-shirt, shocking him into stopping his ministrations.

"I can't believe you came."

Phil's throat tightened and he blinked against the sudden stinging in his eyes. He forced a shaky breath and continued his search for hidden injuries.

"Of course I did." He assured gently.

"No." Clint's hand tightened in his t-shirt, forcing Phil to look down at him. Clint's eyes were squeezed shut and he was forcing sharp breaths in and out through his nose. But before Phil could say anything, Clint opened his eyes and met Phil's unerringly. "I was dead…and you came anyway…" Unchecked emotion welled in Clint's eyes before they clouded with pain and were screwing shut again. His breaths came in shorter, sharper gasps and his hand twisted in Phil's t-shirt.

"Hey…Clint, take it easy."

"They're gonna come lookin…" Clint tried, without success to pull himself up with the hand he had wrapped up in Phil's shirt. "They're gonna..." Clint fell back, his full weight falling against the arm Phil had around his shoulders.

"Hey. Let them come." Phil replied firmly. "They'll have to get through me, and I'm not going to let that happen."

Clint's eyes met his again and Phil's heart ached in his chest. The kid was exhausted and hurting, but he couldn't let go. Couldn't stop fighting, it was too ingrained an instinct. He couldn't let it go on his own.

"I came, Clint." Phil assured gently. "I'm here and you're safe now, okay? You can stand down."

He watched Clint start to fade, giving up the battle he'd been fighting for so long. Giving it up because he trusted Phil to keep him safe.

"You're safe now," Phil stated again, calmly and quietly. It wasn't until Clint's eyes finally drifted closed that Phil allowed himself to move. He threaded the fingers of his free hand into the dirty hair at the back of Clint's head and tightened his other arm around the teen's shoulders. For a moment he just sat there, forehead dropped down to press against Clint's, hugging the teen in a way that would never be allowed if he were conscious.

"You're safe now." He repeated once more to the quiet room.

* * *

_It was darkness all around him. Every direction he looked, nothing but pitch blackness._

" _You wanted to push me away, Hawk? Congratulations, you fucking succeeded. You can go screw yourself, I'm done."_

_Clint turned, or he thought he turned. It was hard to tell when there was nothing but black around him._

" _Boomer?"_

" _GO!"_

_Clint stepped back, the yell loud enough to feel like it shook the air around him. The echo of hands slamming onto chain link had him retreating another step._

" _Boomer?" Clint turned again, searching the darkness around him. Boomer was here. He had to be. That meant he was still alive. It meant Clint wasn't too late. "BOOMER!"_

" _Clint."_

_Clint looked to the new voice, but just like before, nothing but darkness greeted him._

" _Boomer?"_

" _Why'd you have to make me do this, Clint?"_

_Clint felt his skin turn to ice. He knew that voice. He could never forget that voice._

" _Barney…"_

" _I've got to look out for myself now…"_

_Pain exploded in his chest, making Clint gasp and fall back._

" _CLINT!"_

_The pressure in his chest grew stronger, making the pain grow stronger too._

" _Jesus…" he gasped._

" _Clint."_

Light exploded across his vision and a dizzying array of colors swam in front of him.

"Clint. Keep your eyes open."

" _Keep your eyes open."_

There were voices, too many voices. They were echoing around him, repeating and overlapping. It was confusing and he couldn't separate them. Just trying made his head hurt.

"Just breathe through it, kid."

He knew that voice too.

"Open your eyes for me."

He hadn't realized his eyes were closed, but opening them suddenly seemed impossible. And he really didn't want to face all the people that had to belong to all the voices.

"Hey, hey…" That one voice was louder than the rest, clearer…but it was also calming, almost gentle. "It's just me here, all right?"

That was Phil…Phil was here.

"Now open your eyes."

Right.

It took more energy that it should have, almost more than he had, but he forced his eyelids open.  _Good GOD_ it was bright in…wherever he was.

"There you go. Hey!"

Fingers snapped in front of his nose and he forced himself to focus on them, then follow them up an arm and to the face that owned them.

Phil. His brain shifted into what felt like fast forward as it sped to catch up with where he was and why.

The safe house. Cairo. Fuckin' Ruiz.

And Phil.

Phil had come for him.

"You with me now?"

He blinked away the emotion trying to well up in him and nodded.

"Yeah."

 _Holy hell_ , his throat hurt.

"Jesus, I sound like a chain-smoker with throat cancer."

Phil chuckled, relief loosening the hard lines of worry in his expression.

"Well if you could see your neck right now, you'd be as impressed as I am that you're talking at all."

Clint quirked his eyebrow in vague agreement but didn't answer. He knew without looking that he probably looked like he'd gone a few rounds with Muhammad Ali and lost. He shifted instead, pushing his elbows under him to raise himself off his back. He paused and blinked in confusion at the cot he was laid out on.

"I moved you after you went under." Phil explained as he carefully supported Clint's continued attempt to rise.

"How long have I been out?"

"About five minutes. I haven't even had time to call it in."

"Don't." Clint protested abruptly, eyes widening in panic.

"Clint, you need better medical attention than I can give you."

Clint pushed himself up the rest of the way, hissing out a groan when his ribs protested angrily.

"Whoa, take it easy," Phil scolded quietly even as he pressed his hand flat against Clint's back in an effort to help. The pressure against the still-open wound hidden under the hoodie had him flinching away from Phil's hand, which just re-ignited the pain in his ribs again.

"Fuck." He hissed as he dropped his head down and tried to breathe through it.

"Like I said," Phil sighed, "you need better than I can give you."

"I'm fine." Clint insisted sharply. He didn't have to look at Phil to know his handler was giving him his patented 'doubtful/annoyed' glare. "Okay," Clint sighed and shifted carefully, "not  _fine_ , but fine enough. We need to go."

Clint took a breath and started to lever himself off the cot.

"Wait… _what_?" Phil scoffed as he reached and lightly pushed Clint's nearest shoulder, which Clint thanked his lucky stars happened to be his left. The light pressure was enough to counteract his weak attempt at standing, though, and sent him back onto his ass on the cot.

"Phil…" Clint started to explain, but his handler cut him off.

"Don't ' _Phil'_  me, Clint. You're crazy if you think I'm letting you do anything but go straight to the Cairo base to get treated."

"Phil." He tried again, making his voice firmer.

" _No_ , Clint. Whatever crazy idea you've got rolling around in that concussed brain of yours is  _not_  happening."

"But Phil…" Clint growled in frustration when Phil stood and moved to dig around in his bag. Clint took advantage of the man's back being to him to force himself off the cot again. He kept his right arm cradled against his stomach and stepped – more stumbled – towards Phil. He caught the other man's shoulder with his left hand and pulled him around.

"Jesus, Clint, would you sit down before you fall down  _again_?" Phil latched onto Clint's left arm and backpedalled him towards the cot, forcing him down onto it again. "This isn't a fight you're going to win with me, kid. Not with you looking like you look right now."

"Phil, would you just  _shut the fuck up_  and listen to me!"

Whether it was the desperation in his tone or the urgency that had him tightening his hold on Phil to keep him from moving away, Phil finally stopped. He looked up from the satellite phone he'd pulled out of his bag and met Clint's eyes. Satisfied that he finally had his handler's attention, Clint spoke.

"If we don't go back, if we don't finish this  _now_ , they're gonna kill him."

Phil frowned at him.

"Kill  _who_?"

"Boomer." Clint revealed with a heavy sigh.

Confusion swept through Phil's gaze.

"Who the hell is Boomer?"

Clint dropped his hand from where it still had a hold on Phil's shoulder and drew in a shaky, emotional filled breath.

"There's so much I didn't tell you." He confessed with another catching breath. There was  _so_  much Phil didn't know, so much Clint had kept to himself because he'd been afraid. Afraid Phil would see right through him if he told him the truth, would see through his bullshit as clearly as Boomer had.

"Hey," Phil knelt in front of him, his voice calm and level. It was like a balm on Clint's frayed nerves. "Tell me now. Who's Boomer?"

Who was Boomer? There were so many answers to that, but only one that mattered right now. Only one that would get Phil moving with the same urgency Clint felt.

"He's the only reason I'm still alive. And if we don't go back right now, he's going to die because he helped me."

As Clint had predicted, that declaration had Phil's eyes shifting from resolved to deeply conflicted. Boomer had saved Clint, and to Phil, there was no greater debt to be repaid. His handler scrubbed a hand up through his hair and blew out a frustrated breath.

"Clint, you've got broken bones, you're bleeding from more places than you're not. You're exhausted and you've got a concussion. I can't…I  _won't_  let anything else happen to you. I can't let you do this."

"Phil,  _please_ ," Clint reached to latch onto Phil's forearm, hoping to communicate all the emotions swirling inside him through that grip. Phil's gaze softened immediately and Clint pressed on, voice quiet and pleading. "Please don't let him die because of me."

"Clint, I…" Phil shook his head and looked away with a thick swallow.

"Patch me up," Clint suggested softly, "best you can. I can take it. I  _promise_ I can take it. I'll get there and I'll get back, I  _promise_ , Phil."

Because that was the problem here. That's what was holding Phil back. He would always, and had always, put Clint first, before  _anything_. He was the only one in Clint's life that had ever done that.

Until Boomer had levered him over that fence and told him to run.

For a long silent moment, Phil wouldn't look at him. Finally, he cleared his throat at turned back, meeting Clint's gaze.

"I'm going to hold you to that because I'm going with you. We'll do this together."

Clint sagged in relief and let his chin drop down to his chest. He wasn't going to argue, he'd rather have Phil with him than not, anyway.

"But we aren't going anywhere until I patch you up, okay? So none of your normal evasive, tough guy shit, you've got to be straight up with me, got that?"

Clint nodded.

"All right, then let's get that sweatshirt off and see what we're dealing with."

* * *

Phil was pretty sure he was going to hate pulling that sweatshirt off as much as Clint was, but he wasn't about to leave Clint to try and manage it on his own. So, as gently as he could, he pulled the hem of the black hoodie up over Clint's torso and eased it over his head.

Clint stayed steadfastly silent throughout the process – at worst he would stiffen and seem to hold his breath at points – and Phil started to think that maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed.

And then he pulled the sweatshirt free of his shoulders and arms.

The left arm came free easily enough, but the right…the right didn't really come free at all. By the time Phil realized the problem, Clint was panting and had his left hand wrapped in a white-knuckled fist around the edge of the cot.

"Easy," Phil soothed as he gave a gentle, experimental tug on the fabric.

The sharp intake of breath and the hum of pain through a clenched jaw had him lowering the limb back onto Clint's lap and digging into the first aid kit he'd retrieved after Clint had first collapsed. He glanced at Clint when he found the scissors he'd been searching for only to find his agent's eyes tightly shut as he seemed to focus on taking relatively calm, even breaths.

"What happened to your arm?" Phil asked calmly as he started cutting the fabric along the line of Clint's arm, hoping he'd be able to ease it away from the wound more easily.

"Dog." Clint replied shortly around a breath that was neither calm, nor even.

"Dog, huh?" Phil set the scissors aside and carefully lifted the pieces of the sweatshirt that weren't fused to Clint's arm by drying blood.

Clint flinched. And while Phil knew a dog bite would hurt, Clint had a pretty fantastic pain tolerance. A dog bite wouldn't make him flinch like that.

"Clint."

His agent answered the unasked question without argument.

"It's broken."

"Shit." Phil immediately started running through splinting options in his head as he stood to retrieve a bowl and water to try and loosen the fabric's hold. "Any other broken bones I should know about?" He asked as he moved away. The question was as much for his benefit as it was to give Clint something to focus on.

"Uh…collarbone, probably some ribs."

That drew Phil's gaze to Clint's torso as he moved back towards him with the bowl and water. He hadn't let himself focus on anything but the arm yet, knew he needed to take this one problem at a time. It was the only way he was going to get through this, he was sure.

But the prospect of broken ribs, had him checking for the extent of whatever bruising there was before he could stop himself.

He wished he hadn't looked.

Almost immediately, bile rose in the back of his throat and he had to set the bowl on the cot next to Clint before he dropped it. If Clint was bothered by the water that sloshed over the side onto his pant leg, he didn't show it.

"You okay, Phil?"

What the hell was wrong with this kid, that he would ask if  _Phil_  was okay when his entire torso was painted in blacks, purples and blues. When his shoulder was a swollen, bruised mess and his arm was currently trapped in a sweatshirt fused in place by his own blood. When his throat was ringed with hand-shaped bruises, his hair stained shades of brown and red by blood, and his eyes narrowed against pain from a certain concussion.

And he was asking about Phil.

"Am  _I_  okay?" Phil scolded gently. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

"You looked like you were gonna hurl."

"Yeah, well…I'm fine."

Clint's lips turned up in an exhausted, weak smirk.

"That's my line."

Phil quirked his own lips and took a deep breath. One problem at a time. He could do this. Clint needed him to keep it together. So he would.

"What do you say we get that sweatshirt off your arm?"

Clint didn't reply and just watched with detached interest as Phil carefully started using the water to loosen wet the sweatshirt and loosen the dried blood. Phil worked quickly and quietly and within a few minutes was easing the sweatshirt away from Clint's forearm with little trouble.

The skin wasn't actually torn all that badly, which surprised him. Instead there was just a neat curve of teeth marks stretching across the top of his arm and a matching set across the bottom. But the punctures were deep and skin around them was inflamed and angry looking.

Phil reached for the bottle of antiseptic but paused before proceeding any further. He met Clint's eyes and made sure he had his attention.

"This is going to hurt."

Either too tired to respond or saving his energy to deal with the coming pain all Clint did was nod slightly and draw in a fortifying breath.

Phil reached for a towel and pillowed Clint's arm on it, then wasted no more time thoroughly dousing the wound with the antiseptic.

He was distracted from the bloody, bubbling reaction by Clint's tight-jawed groan of pain.

He reached to catch the back of Clint's neck with his hand and gently squeezed.

"Breathe through it, Clint. I know it hurts, just breathe through it."

Clint's left hand latched suddenly onto the sleeve of Phil's shirt and the archer drew in a deep, shuddering breath before nodding, signaling Phil to continue. Phil doused the wound again.

* * *

Phil stared at his reflection in the mirror, both hands wrapped around the bowl of the sink in front of him. The bathroom door wasn't closed. He wanted to hear the second Clint stirred from his second unscheduled visit to the land of unconsciousness. Of course, Clint had soldiered bravely through the worst of Phil's first aid. It wasn't until Phil had used a flashlight to check his pupils that the kid had gone down for the count – but only after puking acidic bile all over Phil's shirt.

It wasn't until the archer had collapsed forward and Phil had caught him that he'd found the crusted-over laceration across his back, stretching from hip to shoulder. Cleaning that without laying Clint out on his broken ribs had been a trick, but Phil had managed.

And if he was honest, he was kind of relieved the kid had passed out. Treating his injuries was hard enough on its own. Having to hear Clint trying to suck it up and let Phil treat him without letting on how much pain he was in? That was worse.

Now Clint was bandaged up to the best of Phil's first aid ability – which was fairly extensive due to the length of time he'd been with SHIELD – and resting at least somewhat comfortably, Phil finally felt like he could take a breath.

But taking a breath meant the full impact of the roller coaster the last hour had been was finally going to hit him.

Clint was alive.

 _Alive_.

Phil stepped back from the sink until his back hit the wall and forced himself to take deep breaths.

What if he hadn't come? What if he hadn't insisted to Fury that he come to Cairo himself? What if Clint had broken into an empty safe house and collapsed and nobody had been here to help him?

Phil slid down the wall until he was sitting on the bathroom floor, braced his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.

Clint had been  _dead_. They had all been sure of it. They hadn't even been looking for him. If it hadn't been for this Boomer character, he might have ended up that way anyway. That thought had Phil hardening his own resolve to find this mysterious man and save him. Boomer, whoever he was, was the reason Clint was still alive. There was no halfway about that and Phil would do whatever he could to repay that debt.

Unless it was going to cost him Clint.

If it came to choosing between saving Boomer and keeping Clint alive, Phil would choose Clint. Every. Damn. Time. Clint would hate him for it, but he'd cleaned up Clint's emotional disasters before. He'd do it again.

But that didn't mean he couldn't stack the odds in their favor. It didn't mean he wouldn't try to save Boomer  _and_  keep Clint alive.

He reached for the satellite phone that he'd brought into the bathroom with him. He momentarily lamented his shattered cellphone, still in pieces in the jet. It would have been a lot less bulky and Fury's number would have been on speed dial.

Even so, he knew Fury's private number by heart, had for years, but still his fingers shook as he dialed.

His boss answered after the first ring.

" _Fury."_

"He's alive." Saying it out loud brought another swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd lost him. He'd been so sure he'd lost him, failed him, left him to die alone. But Clint had done what he had always done. He'd survived.

Fury was silent for a long moment without responding and when he answered his tone was patient, but firm.

" _Phil…"_

"He's sleeping on the cot in the next room." Phil delivered the proof he knew was necessary in a firm, dare-you-to-question-me tone.

Fury was struck silent again and Phil gave him a moment to process before speaking again.

"He's alive, Nick." Phil closed his eyes, frustrated at the emotion he let bleed into his tone.

Then Fury did something Phil didn't expect. He chuckled. And then that chuckle grew into an emotion-filled laugh.

" _The little son of a bitch…"_ Fury laughed again.  _"He actually survived."_

Despite everything, Phil found himself smiling in response.

"Yeah, looks that way."

" _I'm assuming since you aren't demanding an evac, he's still in one piece?"_

Phil pushed himself up and leaned into the doorway of the bathroom. The shift gave him a clear view of the door to the bunk room and the cot inside it. Clint was exactly where he left him, chest rising and falling smoothly and evenly.

"More or less."

" _And his mission status?"_

He wouldn't be Fury if he didn't have the ultimate objective at the forefront of his mind.

"That's why I called. As soon as he comes to, we're heading back to the compound to put down Ruiz. I need back up on call."

" _I'll make the arrangements."_

Phil wasn't sure if he was relieved that Fury didn't question whether Clint was capable of completing his mission – which meant he didn't have to lie – or annoyed at the lack of concern. Either way, Fury's tone was all business.

"Sir, would you let Dr. Wilson and Agent Bryan know about the new development?"

" _I'll fill them in and I'll have the Cairo base wait for your call."_

Phil nodded even though Fury couldn't see him and then straightened when he saw Clint shift.

" _And Phil…"_

Phil waited and watched to see if Clint was waking up.

" _Just…keep him in one piece."_

And there it was. Fury may be a hard assed, no-nonsense, all-business super spy, but at the end of the day, no matter how much he tried to hide it…he cared.

"Will do, sir."

The line went dead and Phil moved out of the bathroom, across the hallway and into the bunk room. Clint was reaching with his left hand to rub at his eyes. He looked to Phil when he noticed him.

"How long this time?" The kid's voice was still painfully rough and Phil wondered, not for the first time, about damaged vocal chords.

"About an hour." He reached to help when Clint started gingerly levering himself to a sitting position.

"We need to go." The archer insisted as he swung his feet over the edge of the cot. Before Phil could stop him, the kid shoved his way off the cot and stood. He wavered and reached out blindly for something to steady him. Phil met the seeking hand with his own and wrapped his other hand around Clint's elbow. Phil felt his worry spike sharply at the heat he could feel emanating from the archer's bare skin. A fever. Not good.

"I think you should stay here."

"What?  _No_!" Clint stubbornly jerked his arm out of Phil's hold, only to waver again. The only thing that saved him from going down right there was Phil's quick reflexes.

"Clint, you can barely stand."

"I'll be fine." Clint snapped sharply. "I'm not letting you go alone. You don't know the compound and you don't know the people.  _I do_."

"Kid…"

"Phil," Clint interrupted seriously, "I'm going. If you try to leave me here, you're gonna have to knock me out or I'm just gonna follow you. You want that? You wanna put me down yourself? Or do you want me to end up out there on my own again?"

Phil scowled. He'd taught Clint how to manipulate a little too well.

"Fine."

Clint didn't look satisfied or smug at Phil's capitulation. Instead he just looked worried and angry and tired all at once. They needed to find this guy Boomer. They needed to do it before it was too late.

"But I want you to try and sleep in the car, okay? You're gonna need all the rest you can get."

Clint dipped his chin in agreement and glanced around with a sense of urgency that was odd for the normally calm and cool archer.

"Please tell me you have an extra pair of goddamned boots."

* * *

End of Chapter 8

You had to know Clint wasn't gonna be able to leave Boomer behind! OR that he was gonna leave his mission unfinished. This is CLINT.

The bomber and his motives will be explained before the end of the story :) Promise!

Was the reunion all you hoped it would be? Let me know what you thought and how you feel! :D

Until tomorrow...

* * *

_"If you two are drinking your troubles away and raising those drinks to Barton, you can put them down. There's been a development." Fury spoke even as he stepped into the room without warning or invitation._

_Dan blinked owlishly at the director and Todd twisted to watch his approach._

_"What development?" Todd demanded._

_Fury eyed the nearly empty bottle in Todd's hand and the flask in Dan's._

_"Phil called." Fury's lips quirked into a slight smirk. "Barton's alive."_


	9. Carry On My Wayward Son

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 8:_ **Isi7140, hgb, JAKKIE, immertreu, Hamham2931, GoldOwl89**

_Special thanks to_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their amazing and awesome beta abilities! Dan's voice, as per usual, is from_ **Kylen's** _mouth :D_

_Time to get going! Enjoy Chapter 9!_

* * *

_Courage isn't having the strength to go on - it is going on when you don't have strength.  
_ _**Napoleon Bonaparte** _

* * *

Todd heard the door to the gym push open and then swing shut, but didn't turn to see who it was. There were probably only two people on base that would bother him on a night like tonight. One of those men didn't tend to make house calls. The other…

"You gonna give me shit about protocols again if I try and talk to you?"

Todd didn't respond to Dan at first. Instead he slammed his gloved fist into the punching bag hanging in front of him. The bag was old and worn, the leather almost something close to softened after years of use. Todd didn't usually get it out of retirement to go a few rounds, but it had been Barton's favorite bag. Even though Todd had told him there were better, more sturdy bags to work out on, the kid had been adamant that  _this_ one was his favorite.

" _Having a little bit of mileage doesn't mean something doesn't still have some life in it."_

That's what the archer had said. Todd hadn't tried to talk him into a newer bag again. After all, the same could have been said about Barton. Todd had eventually figured the archer and the old punching bag were made for each other.

After tonight, he'd have to retire the bag for good.

"Not now, Wilson. Just…" Todd sighed and threw a hard right cross into the bag, "not now." He hit the bag again, this time with a hard jab-cross-uppercut combo.

He felt Dan's eyes on him as the other man moved across the gym and into Todd's office. Todd threw a few more punches at the bag as he watched the doctor re-emerge with a chair. He headed back towards Todd and wordlessly put the chair down.

Todd hit the bag once more and then caught it between his gloved hands.

"What the hell are you doing? Aren't you on shift or something?"

"Just got off, actually." Dan reached around a pulled a metal flask from his back pocket. "As to what I'm doing? I'm about to be drinking. Care to join me?"

Todd jerked his chin towards an open bottle of scotch he'd set on a nearby weight bench before he'd started on the bag.

Dan looked over at the bottle and scoffed.

"Since when did you start going for the cheap stuff, Todd?"

"Since I needed a lot of it fast." Todd shot back. He returned his attention to the bag and started throwing punches again.

Dan nodded as if to say 'fair enough' and unscrewed the cap on his flask.

"This is from a bottle I keep hidden in my office. For special occasions, you know?" Sarcasm dripped from the doctor's tone and he chuckled bitterly before taking a long drink.

"Yeah," Todd jabbed at the bag, "today is just fucking  _special_." He threw all of his weight into a cross that sent the bag swinging. He caught it with a vicious series of blows on the backswing.

Dan watched him quietly for a long moment.

"You know that shit over there is going to give you a hell of a hangover. Not gonna help matters."

Todd scoffed mockingly.

" _Help matters?_ " Todd threw a few – admittedly wild – punches at the bag. "Maybe I don't give a fuck about  _helping matters_."

Dan's jaw clenched and he looked away briefly, seeming to try and reign in some emotion that was threatening to break free. When he looked back at Todd, his eyes were a little brighter, both with emotion and anger. Anger to match the anger coursing through Todd. But instead of snapping at him, the doctor pocketed his flask, moved to the bag and caught it before it could swing back to Todd's waiting fists.

"You need to stop."

But Todd didn't want to stop. He wanted to keep going until his hands bled.

"Dan, you really don't want to be holding that when I hit it."

"Yeah," Dan's voice was hard, "I know I don't. But if you keep this up, you're going to hurt yourself  _and_  be sicker than shit in the morning. So listen to me and  _stop_."

Todd felt something snap deep inside, something that had previously been holding him together.

He stepped forward and gave the bag a hard shove, sending Dan stutter-stepping backwards to keep his feet.

"You don't get it!" He practically snarled. "I don't  _want_  to stop. I  _want_  to hurt. I  _want_  to be sicker than shit. I want to do whatever it takes so I don't have to think about goddamned fucking Clint Barton!"

"I don't get it?" Dan snapped back with venom in his tone, and shoved the bag back to Todd. " _I_  don't get it? You weren't the only one who knew him! You aren't the only one who lost him! I knew him too! I cared about him too!"

"But you aren't the one that  _trained him!_ " Todd slammed his fist into the bag as it swung back to him. "You're not the one wondering if there was something else I should have taught him. If there was something  _I_ missed that could have saved his life. I became a trainer so shit like this didn't happen. So that everybody we sent out there had every tool they needed to survive."

"Todd," Dan's tone was closer to level again, but was packed with enough emotion to draw Todd's attention, "it was a car bomb. You can't stop everything just because you're a trainer now instead of in the field."

"But it was fucking Barton, Dan… _Barton_. This kid, you don't even know, he was like nobody that's ever come through here. He should have seen it coming. He  _would_  have. Unless he didn't know what to look for, unless  _I_  didn't teach him what to look for!"

" _You_?" Dan scoffed. "You think all his training began and ended with you? What about  _Phil_? Have you even thought about him during your little pity-fest?  _Phil_  is the one that poured his soul into that kid. And now Barton is gone so is…"

Dan's breath caught and he looked away again, hands clenching at his sides.

Todd caught the still-swinging bag and held it still. He dropped his forehead to rest against it and tried to calm his own raging emotions. He  _had_  thought about Phil, maybe too much.

"Of course I've thought about Phil. I've  _been_  where he is, remember?"

"Yeah," Dan sniffed and pulled his flask out again. "I remember. And you almost walked away. And say whatever you want, but Jasper, Knight and Marshall didn't mean half as much to you as Barton did to Phil."

Todd couldn't deny that. Nobody meant to him what Barton had meant to Phil.

"You almost walked away because of that mission, Todd. Phil is the one that dragged your ass back."

Phil had, mostly. Todd hadn't led a field mission since and promised himself he never would again.

"And now neither of us are there to do the same for him."

Todd looked at his friend and felt more of his simmering anger fade. Dan was right. He wasn't alone in this, not even a little bit. It was selfish to act like he was.

"He needed to do this alone. He needed to find the bastard that did this." He tried to reassure the doctor.

"And when he does?" Dan's eyes grew a little wetter as he went on. "What then? What if he doesn't come back?" Dan moved to the chair and sank into it, taking a long drink from his flask before dropping his head into his hands.

Todd sighed and pulled at the straps of his gloves with his teeth. Once he shook them off, he retrieved his own bottle and dropped down to sit on the floor in front of the doctor.

"Then I wouldn't blame him." Todd admitted. "But Phil is strong, Dan. You've gotta believe he'll come out the other side of this eventually."

Dan shook his head miserably.

" _You_  lost an agent, Todd. I lost a patient." Dan sighed and lifted his head to meet Todd's eyes. "I've never seen Phil invest himself like this before. Barton was more than a project…he became _family_. This is going to destroy him. In a way, it already has."

Todd sighed.

"You're just gonna have to give him time. Maybe a lot of it."

Dan took a drink and sat back in his chair.

"And if time isn't enough?"

Todd forced himself to smirk.

"Then we'll drag his ass back somehow. This is where Phil belongs, he'll remember that eventually."

He glanced around the gym and sighed. Barton had belonged here too, more than Todd had ever imagined he could.

"Nineteen." Todd blew out a sad breath. "Fucking nineteen. Nothing but piss, vinegar and talent…and now he's just… _gone_."

"He was something else wasn't he?" Dan glanced around the gym as well.

"And then some," Todd couldn't help but grin fondly.

"Did I ever tell you about the first time Phil brought him into the infirmary?"

Todd smirked.

"It was probably about as pleasant as his first visit to the training gym."

Dan chuckled.

"Kid had more attitude than a damned rattlesnake spotting a meal. Once I got done and he stomped off I asked Phil if he knew what he was getting into." Dan smiled at the memory, "He just said it would be 'interesting.'" The doctor took another drink.

Todd snorted.

"'Interesting?' Understatement of the fucking century."

Dan laughed.

"Yeah, people keep using that word around here. But I don't think it means what they think it means." Dan's smile cut off abruptly. "God, I lost track of the things I patched up over 'interesting.' Including a few trainees that decided Barton was an easy target." Dan looked at Todd, and shook his head. "He proved them wrong. And now they're alive, and he's not."

Todd stared at the remaining liquid in his bottle and slowly swirled it around.

"I never thought anything would take that kid down. He was a survivor, I could see that from day damn one."

Dan nodded.

"When he got back from the Andes – and Phil told me to take over as his physician – I honestly couldn't figure out how he'd survived that mission. The notes from Argentina were pretty damned explicit."

"If I had to guess...I'd say it's because that kid was too goddamned stubborn to die." Todd sighed. "That's what I used to think anyway."

Dan looked at Todd for a long moment before answering. When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"You and me both."

With a sigh Todd raised his bottle a little higher.

"To Barton – toughest son of a bitch I ever met...biggest pain in the ass I've ever known."

Dan raised his flask as well.

"And to Phil – who Barton turned into Papa Bear."

Todd smirked.

"A damn terrifying Papa Bear."

They both raised their drinks a little higher and started to bring them back towards their lips when the gym door abruptly swung open.

"If you two are drinking your troubles away and raising those drinks to Barton, you can put them down. There's been a development." Fury spoke even as he stepped into the room without warning or invitation.

Dan blinked owlishly at the director and Todd twisted to watch his approach.

"What development?" Todd demanded.

Fury eyed the nearly empty bottle in Todd's hand and the flask in Dan's.

"Phil called." Fury's lips quirked into a slight smirk. "Barton's alive."

Todd set the bottle down with a thud.

"What?" It was all he could think to say. In the chair, Dan was just staring with his mouth slightly gaping.

Fury folded his hands behind his back and spoke again.

"He's with Phil now. I don't have all the details, but Phil wanted you to know."

Dan blinked and ran a hand through his hair, shock painted across his expression.

"Holy  _fucking_  shit."

"Yeah," Todd gestured towards Dan, "what he said." Then he smiled and looked to Dan. "I  _told_ you – a fucking survivor."

Dan hissed a sigh out through his teeth.

"This is one story I  _gotta_  hear." He reached for his cell. "You want to call, or should I?"

"Neither of you will be calling anyone." Fury interjected in a tone that demanded no argument. "They're still on mission."

Dan groaned and Todd frowned. That meant whatever Barton was mixed up in wasn't over yet.

"Lovely. Can you at least tell me if Barton's still in one piece, or should I be reserving him a room here?"

"Like I said, I don't have the details. I can tell you that Barton is mission ready enough that Phil is backing his play. Let that tell you what it will."

Dan looked at Todd.

"That mean what I think it means?"

Todd sighed.

"Knowing Barton...it means things are gonna get interesting. Maybe already have." Todd met Dan's gaze. "But you know as well as I do that Phil wouldn't put him at risk, mission or not."

Dan scowled.

"I don't think that word fucking means  _anything_  like what you people fucking think it means."

Dan motioned to Todd's bottle.

"In the meantime – join us, Director?"

Fury held up a hand and moved back towards the door.

"Another time, perhaps. But as it stands, I've got an op to monitor." Fury smirked. "It's been a while since I've done that."

Dan nodded.

"Tell them not to bring me an Andes repeat if possible, OK?"

"I'll be sure to pass that along." With that Fury stepped through the door and was gone.

Dan looked at Todd.

"Now what?"

Apparently drinking away their grief wasn't a viable option anymore. Todd smirked suddenly and raised his bottle.

"To fucking Barton – most stubborn goddamned survivor there's ever been."

"What the hell, but this is my last one. Knowing him, I'm now officially on call. To Barton, for being a survivor –  _and_  for bringing back Phil."

* * *

Phil glanced over to the passenger seat and took a moment to soak in the sight that greeted him. On the drive into Cairo from the SHIELD base, that passenger seat had been empty – painfully and heartbreakingly empty. Now it had a nineteen year old sleeping – somewhat peacefully even – in it.

After white knuckling and gritting his teeth into one of Phil's spare t-shirts, Clint had insisted, for reasons he wouldn't explain, on putting the bloodstained black hoodie back on. Its right sleeve was still cut up the side, which was actually useful considering Phil had ace-bandaged a rudimentary splint around Clint's broken forearm and the extra room definitely made it easier to get the sweatshirt on than it had been to get off. They'd argued, until Phil felt like he'd gone blue-faced, about immobilizing Clint's shoulder. But then Clint had asked if Phil really wanted him going into this with one hand  _literally_  tied behind his back. Phil had sarcastically pointed out that it would have been tied to his  _chest_  not his back…and then he'd given in.

Clint had then rattled off a long list of directions that Phil had scribbled down on the back of one of the papers from the mission file, climbed into the car, pulled his hood up and almost instantly fallen asleep. He had barely stirred since. Phil was hesitant, now that the drive was at an end, to wake him. Clint sleeping peacefully wasn't exactly a common occurrence, but he supposed exhaustion compounded with injury had a way of turning off even the most brutal subconscious.

 _But_ , Phil couldn't breach the compound, kill Ruiz, and rescue some guy he'd never seen before without some back up. He, like Clint had pointed out back at the safe house, didn't know the compound. Clint did. Having him along would make the whole process smoother and simpler. So Phil pulled the car into a break in the trees and turned it off. How Ares had managed to cultivate a compound amidst the acres upon acres of farmland wasn't all that surprising. Breeding trees to surround your land was practically common place. Whether it was for the fruit, the shade, the air purification, a wood source, or to guard against the wind, trees were useful. That they lent a measure of privacy was just an added bonus for a group like Ares.

Phil turned slightly in his seat and watched Clint for a moment, waiting to see if the lack of motion would wake him up. But a few moments passed and Clint didn't stir. So Phil sighed, prayed for a better reaction than he normally got, and spoke loudly and firmly.

"Clint."

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

"Come on, kid. Don't make me do this the hard way." Phil muttered before trying again, making his tone louder and firmer. "CLINT."

Still nothing. They didn't have time for this. Phil blew out a breath and carefully reached out to touch Clint's shoulder. He knew he'd have to move quickly if he didn't want his forearm sliced open. He'd seen Clint tuck away a knife Phil had never seen before just before he'd fallen asleep and he'd woken the kid enough times to know what was coming.

But when Phil's hand lightly landed on his shoulder – his left was the nearer one, thankfully – Clint didn't spring awake swinging the knife defensively as Phil had come to expect. He stirred sluggishly, head twitching within the confines of the hood. Then as Phil's hand pulled away, Clint pulled his head forward off the head rest and took a sharp breath, left hand fumbling for the knife.

"Hey, it's just me." Phil spoke up, keeping his voice low and calm. He tried to ignore the fresh worry bubbling inside him at the out of character reaction he was witnessing. Clint had always, _always_  come awake sharp and quick, ready to fight. The sluggishness of his reaction now just further spoke to the actual extent of his injuries better than anything else could have.

It took a few tense moments that consisted of Clint sitting stone-still in the passenger seat with the knife clenched in his slightly shaking hand before Phil's presence and voice seemed to register. Then Clint blinked slowly and glanced around.

"Whe–" Clint winced and cleared his throat but when he spoke again his voice didn't sound any better. "Where are we?"

Phil watched him for a moment longer, but it seemed that Clint was growing more aware and alert with each passing second so Phil pushed away his worry once again.

"If your directions were solid…" Phil started.

"They were  _solid_." The teen interrupted. Phil smiled at the suddenly affronted expression that took over Clint's face as he continued.

"Then we are about a mile west of the compound."

Clint nodded and glanced around again before abruptly reaching for the door handle.

"We should go."

"Clint, are you sure…"

"Damn it, Phil. Ask me one more time if I can do this. Go ahead…and see if you enjoy what – I can promise you – will be a  _very_  colorful reaction. "

Phil put his hands up in surrender and pushed his way out of the driver's side. He resisted the urge to offer to help Clint haul himself out of the car and made himself busy gearing up at the trunk. He'd already strapped on a bullet proof vest and two thigh holsters by the time Clint made it around the car to join him. When Clint waved away the spare vest Phil had brought with him from the safe house, he counted slowly to ten and just arched a questioning eyebrow.

"You really think I wanna strap that on over broken ribs, a busted shoulder, electrical burns and a lacerated back?"

Phil offered a sarcastic smile to match the sarcasm in Clint's tone and pushed the vest carefully against his agent's chest.

"You really think I wanna patch up a bullet hole after all this is over?"

"Phil." Clint was building up to a weak version of his 'I'm gonna dig my heels in and let my mile-wide stubborn streak be known' face. Phil cut his free hand through the air and hardened his tone.

"You don't have to strap it down tight, but if this gets hairy, I'd like to know there's something between you and any bullets that are flying."

Clint blew out what sounded like the start of a very put-upon sigh that turned into a wheezing coughing fit. He ended up braced against the open trunk with Phil's hand lightly on his back until it passed.

"Son of a  _bitch_." Clint slammed his left hand against the car and then straightened.

"You good?"

Clint pulled the vest out of Phil's hand and gave him a dry look.

"Fucking fantastic."

Phil shrugged off the sharp sarcasm and silently helped Clint loosely strap the bullet proof vest over his sweatshirt. Clint somehow managed to stubbornly strap on a thigh holster one-handed and then they were headed into the trees.

* * *

Clint braced his left shoulder against a tree and stared at the fence in front of them while he tried to catch his breath. Phil settled into a crouch next to him and silently surveyed the fence as well. They'd avoided the perimeter guards more easily than Clint had on his way out. Of course, with Phil's presence and the weight of a gun on his thigh, his situation didn't feel quiet as desperate as it had then either.

"Looks like your friend wasn't kidding about rigging some distractions." Phil whispered as they took in the sight of smoldering buildings and smoke-filled air.

"Well, Boomer didn't get his nickname for nothing."

It looked like whatever flames had been present were now put out, but Boomer had done a number on the compound. People were roaming around, still attempting to assess the damage and lock down the compound. That seemed to be proving difficult because Boomer had apparently decided to blow  _all_ the fences after Clint had gotten safely away.

"Getting in won't be hard." Phil mused.

Clint nodded his head slightly. Not having to go over a fence again was a definite plus. And with the number of people out and about, blending in wasn't really going to be an issue either.

"Any idea where they'd be holding him?" Phil asked quietly as Clint checked to make sure the hood of his sweatshirt was pulled as low over his eyes as possible.

"I'd bet the same place they were holding me."

"And if he's not there?" Phil added quietly. Clint blew out a breath and levered himself away from the tree.

"Then we keep looking until we find him."

He wasn't leaving Boomer behind. It just wasn't going to happen. To his credit, Phil didn't argue with him, just nodded grimly and fell into step next to him as they headed towards the compound.

Any concerns Clint had about them being noticed once they were within the compound, faded quickly as soon as they started weaving through the throngs of people. Everybody in the compound was up and around and not one person seemed to be paying attention to anything other than their current task.

They made it to the building Clint had escaped out of just a few hours ago much faster than he'd expected to. He eased the door open and led the way inside, glancing over his shoulder at Phil once the door was closed behind them.

"That was way too easy."

Phil nodded his agreement and pulled one of his guns. Clint took the cue and pulled his as well, holding it firmly in his left hand. Together they moved down the hallway and Clint forced his tired mind to recall the path he and Boomer had taken on their way out. The bodies that had been there last time he was in the hallway were still there, left behind in the chaos that Boomer had caused.

They heard the voices long before they ever got to the room. Clint had been through enough interrogations to know what they sounded like, though this one seemed particularly one-sided.

They stopped, crouching around a corner in order to listen but still remain hidden.

"Sounds like two men." Phil spoke so lowly that if Clint hadn't been right next to him, he wouldn't have heard him.

He nodded in agreement with Phil's assessment and worked at placing the voices.

"Ruiz and Cohen," he whispered.

Phil checked his gun out of habit and gave Clint an assessing look.

"Ready?"

"If Boomer is in there, no guns."

Phil was momentarily shocked but then frowned.

"I'm not gonna risk anybody, us  _or_  them, putting a bullet in him." Clint defended sharply.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but you aren't exactly in top shape right now. You really think you can fight if it comes to that?"

Clint felt steely resolve settle deep in his gut.

"I'll do whatever I have to do."

He always had and always would – no matter what the cost.

He heard Phil sigh next to him and mutter very lowly,

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Clint ignored him and tuned into a new voice instead. It was quieter than the rest, weaker.

It was Boomer.

He was moving before he had even fully processed the desire to do so. He holstered his gun and drew Boomer's knife without breaking stride and ignored Phil's whispered command to wait. He stepped into the open doorway and moved at Ruiz's back before he even knew Clint was there.

Usually he thought through plans more thoroughly before he acted, he would readily admit that. And maybe if he hadn't just charged into the room and moved at Ruiz's back, he could have come up with a plan that  _didn't_  end up with Cohen catching sight of him and heading him off. Cohen's movement caught Ruiz's attention and the next thing Clint knew he was backed up against the wall with Ruiz's hand around his throat  _again_  and Cohen's hand restraining his against the wall so the knife was essentially out of play.

Concussions really were a bitch. He hated them. He really did. They made even the most strategic thinker act on ill-advised impulse. And when it came down to it, emotions were a bitch too. Because if he hadn't been so focused on getting to Boomer, if he hadn't cared about him, he probably would have stopped and  _thought_  before charging in.

"You came back?" Ruiz laughed mockingly. "You must have a death wish."

Clint quirked his eyebrow and shrugged minutely, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Ruiz so he didn't give away Phil's silent entrance into the room.

"It's been said." Clint smirked tightly and did his best to swallow around the pressure Ruiz was putting on his throat. "Mostly by  _him_."

Both men frowned in confusion a second before Cohen was pulled back and shoved across the room. His left hand and the knife suddenly free, Clint slashed at Ruiz's throat. It was enough to get the man to release him and step back.

Adrenaline flooded his system, washing away the fatigue and the pain. Weeks of waiting, of being forced to slip back into a version of himself that he hated, and it was finally time to end this.

He pushed away from the wall and stretched his neck, meeting Ruiz's gaze.

"I didn't lie about who I was." Clint pointed out in a quiet, dark tone. "That should be fucking terrifying you right about now."

Ruiz's eyes flashed with a moment of uncertainty so brief Clint almost thought it was imagined. Then his eyes darkened into something similar to what Clint had been seeing in the mirror over the last two weeks – the eyes of a killer.

And then Ruiz moved.

Clint slashed out with his –  _Boomer's_  – knife to keep the other man at enough of a distance that Clint could maneuver away from the wall. After that it was all instinct. It had to be because Clint was too hurt to let anything else control him. He couldn't think, thinking would get him killed. He just had to move.

Ruiz feigned a right hook and kicked out with his left leg instead, aiming for Clint's knee. Clint blocked the kick with his own leg and swung the blade, catching Ruiz with shallowly across the chest. Ruiz stepped back, hand going to his chest. He then drew it back to look at the fresh blood on it. Clint adjusted his grip on the knife and waited.

Ruiz smirked, as if the blood amused him, and moved again, faster this time. The flurry of jabs, crosses and kicks came fast and hard, but Clint was fast, too. The first hit he had to block with his broken arm should have hurt, it should have hurt so bad that nothing else mattered.

But it didn't hurt. Nothing hurt. There wasn't pain, there wasn't fatigue.

There was just Hawkeye.

He got Ruiz across the inner bicep with the knife and knocked him back with a sharp kick to the chest. Ruiz's eyes dropped to Clint's shoulder, the shoulder that was supposed to be broken. Then they dropped further, to the arm encased in a splint and an ace bandage.

When the other man's eyes rose to Clint's again there was fear there for the first time. It was as if Ruiz had only just realized who he was fighting.

Clint couldn't help it, he let his lips curve into a dark, dangerous smirk.

Something else settled in Ruiz's eyes then. It was the same look Clint had seen countless times before. It was the look a person got when they realized they were suddenly fighting for survival. When Ruiz attacked again, it wasn't about killing Clint anymore.

It was about not letting Clint kill  _him_.

The fight was fast and brutal and eventually it didn't matter how much pain Clint could ignore, his body was slowing down. When Ruiz put him on his back, he wasn't quite able to keep his head from hitting the ground completely. The result was a dizzying array of stars that kept him from seeing Ruiz's boot before it could knock the knife out of his hand.

The man got a handle on his sweatshirt and pulled him up, slamming him hard into the wall. But before Ruiz could get a hand around his throat for the  _third_  time, the stars cleared and Clint reacted. He braced both his hands on Ruiz's shoulders and pushed up, slamming his boot into the inside of Ruiz's knee. When the man faltered, Clint brought his knee up into Ruiz's gut and suddenly there was some space between them. Clint curled his legs up, ignoring the fiery pain in his ribs. With his shoulders braced against the wall and his hands on Ruiz's shoulders, he had all the leverage he needed to thread his legs up between his arms and lock them around Ruiz's neck. Just in time too – because his abused arm and shoulder gave out a second later.

But Clint had him now.

Even as Ruiz stumbled back, Clint tightened his abs and pulled himself up farther until he was essentially sitting on Ruiz's shoulders. Ruiz clawed at him, but Clint just tightened his legs and twisted his body around Ruiz's head and then threw his weight down, reaching for the ground with his left hand.

The move did its job and Ruiz's body had no choice but to crumble to the ground. Clint tightened his thighs again to keep Ruiz's neck trapped and then stretched as far as he could, reaching for the knife Ruiz had kicked out of his hands only moments ago. He couldn't quite reach it.

Ruiz clawed at his thighs and then swung his fists back wildly at Clint's abused rib cage. Clint batted his hands away and curled forward, slamming his closed fist into Ruiz's sternum. The air coughed out of Ruiz's lungs and Clint tightened his legs again to keep him from drawing any more in.

Then he reached back again for the knife.

His fingers caught the blade and he latched onto it, ignoring its sharp bite on his skin. He pulled the knife closer and shifted the hilt into his hands just as Ruiz's flailing arms took up their attack again, more frantically this time.

Clint reached with his right hand for Ruiz's jaw and pulled it up and back even as he loosened his legs. Ruiz managed to drag in one gasping breath before Clint pulled the knife sharply across his throat.

Then it was over. He pushed Ruiz's gurgling body away and collapsed back onto his back, knife clattering to the floor. Before he was ready for it, before he had even caught his breath, the pain filtered back in. His head, he couldn't remember his head ever hurting like this before. He could barely breathe around the stabbing pain in his ribs. The bullet proof vest felt like it was shrinking and suddenly getting it off felt like the only way he was going to be able to breathe deeply again. And good God, his shoulder and arm…

If he could just catch his goddamned breath.

"Clint!"

Clint snapped his eyes open, wondering briefly when he'd let them fall closed. Phil. Phil was here with him. But Phil wasn't coming to him, was calling to him from across the room. Maybe he needed his help.

Phil needed him. He had to move.

Clint groaned and hissed against the pain as he forced himself to roll over and pulled his knees up beneath him. When he'd finally made it to all fours – well, threes because his right arm was definitely out of commission for a while – he looked up, searching for Phil.

But Phil didn't need his help, at least not in the way he'd thought. Phil was supporting a limp body where it was dangling from its wrists by handcuffs and a chain.

"On the wall."

That was Boomer's voice, weak and gasping.

"What?" Phil asked what Clint couldn't force out. All he could see was Boomer, dangling from his wrists just as Clint had been only  _hours_  ago. Boomer, who was covered in blood almost from head to toe.

"Rel…" Boomer coughed and groaned. "Release."

Release? Clint's tired and concussed brain tried to catch up even as he forced himself to his feet and staggered towards the wall. Even if he didn't understand quite yet, Boomer seemed to think the wall was important.

He hit the wall a little jarringly, almost hard enough to send him to the ground. For a second he couldn't force himself to move, but then Boomer gasped and groaned and for a moment, Clint's pain disappeared.

He reached for the lever to release the chain and pulled it. Immediately slack started unwinding from the winch bolted to the wall. Clint moved towards Phil and Boomer then, keeping his right arm tucked against his stomach.

Phil was lowering Boomer carefully to the floor.

"Jesus." Clint breathed as he finally had a chance to take in the extent of his friend's injuries. He'd been shot, at least four times that Clint could see and he was still bleeding. "We need to get him out of here."

"Clint…" Phil's voice was bordering on gentle but Clint rejected the tone.

"No, Phil. We have to move him, get him to help." Clint reached for Boomer's arm, intent on pulling him up himself.

"Clint, stop!" Phil snapped, though when he pushed Clint's hand away it was done carefully. "I  _called_  help. As soon as I put down Cohen. A Cairo clean-up crew is on the way."

Clint clenched his jaw and thought furiously. A clean-up crew wasn't known for asking questions before shooting. He wasn't sure they really qualified as 'help.'

"Clint, we can't be here when they get here. They're coming in hot and we don't want to get caught in the crossfire."

"Then help me get him out of here!" Clint argued. He didn't understand why Phil wasn't moving, wasn't helping him get Boomer up. "We can get some supplies at the medical building, enough to help him make it to the hospital."

"He won't make it to the hospital." Phil's bluntness took him completely off guard, enough that he stopped talking and just stared at him. "He's been bleeding too much for too long. His pulse is getting weaker by the second. He's not going to make it out of the compound, much less to a hospital."

Clint shook his head in denial.

"We can't take him with us and we can't stay. I'm sorry." And Phil really did sound sorry, he sounded like this was one of the hardest decisions he'd ever had to make. But Clint couldn't accept it, he wouldn't, not after everything.

"I'm not leaving him, not again."

"Y's you are." Boomer's weak, breathy voice drew his full attention immediately and he looked down, surprised to see his friend's cloudy green eyes staring up at him. "I's over f'r me, H'wk. N't f'r you."

"No, it's not over. I'm not leaving you here." Clint argued.

Boomer's pale lips stretched into a weak smile.

"Knew it."

Clint frowned in confusion.

"Knew you w're diff'r'nt."

Clint's throat tightened, and it had nothing to do with the abuse it had taken.

"I'm not different, man. I'm not."

Boomer's eyes took on a knowing gleam and he just weakly shook his head, like he knew something Clint didn't. He drew in a shallow, rickety breath, and abruptly, before Clint even realized what was happening, sighed it back out.

And didn't draw another.

"Boomer?" Clint reached for the other man's jaw and shook him slightly. "Boomer!"

Silently, Phil pressed his fingers against the pulse point on Boomer's neck.

"Clint…"

"No." Clint denied sharply. He wasn't too late. He couldn't have been too late. After  _everything_ , he  _wasn't_  too late. "No!"

"We have to go." Phil's hands latched onto his arm and pulled gently.

Clint jerked his arm out of his grip.

"I'm not leaving him!" He snapped sharply.

"Yes, you are!" Phil's tone hardened and he latched onto Clint's arm again, pulling more roughly this time. "He's dead, Clint. I'm sorry, but he's dead. And if we don't leave now, we will be too."

Clint tightened the hand he had resting on Boomer's chest into a fist and battled against the swell of rage, frustration and  _devastation_  that rose in him.

"Clint, NOW!"

Phil pulled sharply and Clint stopped fighting. He let Phil pull him to the door and out of the room, leaving Boomer behind…again.

* * *

Phil felt like an ass – like an unfeeling, unsympathetic ass. He'd known from the second Clint had told him who Boomer was and that the man needed saving, that failure wasn't something Clint was prepared to handle. And when he'd seen the state Boomer was in when they found him, he'd known failure had become the only possible outcome.

He hadn't had time to convince Clint of that gently, and even if he had, gently didn't tend to work with Clint. Gentle wasn't something he had been exposed to very much and it was like some part of him rejected it now.

So blunt had been his only option.

But blunt felt cruel and cold. Dragging Clint away from Boomer's dead body had felt cruel and cold. And as far as Phil was concerned, Clint had been exposed to  _too much_  of that in his short life. Phil never wanted to be just another source of it for him.

And as he all but marched Clint through the compound, back the way they'd come, he felt cruel again. Because Clint was stumbling next to him, struggling more and more often to keep his feet beneath him. Clint needed to stop, he needed a chance to absorb what had just happened and process it. He couldn't do either while he was being dragged along.

But Phil still didn't have time for gentle. He didn't have time to let Clint stop. He didn't have time to let him absorb and process. He wasn't sure he even had time to get them both clear of the compound before the team from Cairo showed up and started cleaning house.

He definitely didn't have time for Clint's legs to suddenly give out. But they did.

One second Clint was stumbling along next to him and the next the archer was on his knees, broken arm reaching for the ground in an instinctive move to keep himself from face planting. Phil pulled hard on the bicep he still had in his grip to keep weight from ever landing on the already abused limb. He forced himself to ignore the sound – and it sounded dangerously close to a whimper – that came out of Clint at the rough treatment.

"Come on, Clint. We're almost to the fence line. Just keep it together."

Clint – always the tough, 'never-say-quit' guy – stubbornly tried to rise on shaking legs. Phil adjusted his grip, pulling Clint's left arm up over his shoulder to lend more support.

Then they were moving again.

And Phil felt cruel.

The chaos still holding the Ares personnel in its grip made their progress easy. There were plenty of people helping others move around, plenty of other injured men spread around the compound. Finally, they made it to the fence line and a few tense minutes later they were hidden in the trees and Phil felt like he could breathe freely again.

No less than two minutes later they heard the gunfire start. The sound seemed to tap into some deep, secret reserve of strength Clint had because his steps came a little more urgently after that. He still stumbled and gasped as Phil pulled him along, but he didn't falter again. Not until they reached the break in the trees where the car was parked.

"Phil…"

The rasping, breathy one-word warning was all he got before Clint was on his knees again. But this time his stomach was trying to expel food it didn't have and the fit of dry heaving just seemed to spiral.

"Breathe, kid." Phil ordered as he gently gripped the back of Clint's neck to take some of the bite out of the command. "Get it under control."

It took longer than it should have, but eventually the dry heaving stopped. But instead of working towards even breathes like Phil hoped he would, Clint barely seemed to be drawing in any air at all.

"Clint?"

Clint's left hand, previously gripping the forest floor suddenly started fumbling with the straps of his bullet proof vest.

"Hey, talk to me!"

"Can' br…" Clint's fumbling attempts to loosen the straps grew a little more frantic and Phil finally realized what was happening. He reached for the straps and loosened them quickly and efficiently, pulling the vest free of Clint's body.

The next breathe Clint drew in was still sharp and shallow, but it was better than nothing.

"Hey!" Phil pulled Clint up by his good shoulder and manhandled him until he was leaning back against the car instead of hunched over in the dirt. "You can breathe. Just  _calm down_  and do it."

He was being blunt and harsh again, but getting Clint to take in oxygen again was more important than any hurt feelings. Clint clenched his eyes closed and seemed to throw every fiber of his being into following Phil's command. It took some time but eventually his breathes became more regular. They were still choppy, shallow and sharp, but they were coming in regular intervals and Phil counted that as a win.

Now he just had to get Clint into the car so they could get the hell out of here.

"All right, better. Now let's get you up."

But instead of making any sort of move to try and rise, Clint just looked at Phil long and hard for a heavy moment.

"I killed him."

It was whispered like a confession – full of devastation and heartbreak. Clint had no sooner said it than something in his expression broke and he closed his eyes shaking his head.

And Phil felt like something in  _him_  broke too.

He looked down and away for a moment, knowing he had to keep his own composure if he had any hope of restoring Clint's. When he felt like he could keep it together, he looked back at Clint and spoke with as every ounce of conviction he felt in his soul.

"No you didn't."

Clint shook his head in denial before Phil had even gotten the words out.

"I knew what would happen and I  _left_  him." Clint's breathing started getting erratic again and he dropped his head back against the car, eyes closing again. "I killed him."

" _No_." Phil abandoned their normal protocols for physical touch and reached forward, catching the side of Clint's jaw and wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck. "Look at me." He pulled Clint's head forward so that he didn't have much of a choice.

When Clint didn't immediately reject the touch, Phil went on.

"You  _did not_  kill him. You didn't." He tried to keep his voice firm and hard, tried to keep all of his own whirling emotions out of it.

But he knew he wasn't succeeding. Because for some reason his normal ability to stay calm and cool seemed to flee him when it came to Clint. For some reason he couldn't keep emotion out of it when it came to Clint. No matter how hard he tried.

Clint rejected his hand on his jaw now. He turned his face away from it and shook his head again, refusing to accept Phil's words.

"Clint," Phil sighed and retracted his hand, "just stop. Let's get to the base and deal with the physical stuff first, and we can talk through this later. When you've had time to get a little perspective."

"No!" Clint shoved away the hand Phil was using to try and lever Clint off the ground. "There's nothing wrong with my  _perspective_. Time isn't going to change anything! It won't…" the fire seemed to leave him just as quickly as it had come and he almost folded in on himself. "He's dead 'cuz of me…" another whispered confession and Phil reached for the back of Clint's neck once again.

He didn't know what to say to that. So instead, he just squeezed Clint's neck gently.

"I'm sorry, kid. I'm  _sorry._ "

And he was. He was sorry he'd put Clint on this assignment in the first place. He was sorry he hadn't pulled him out when it had become so obvious that things were going badly. He was sorry he hadn't trusted Clint to survive and hadn't come looking for him after the car bomb.

He was sorry they hadn't gotten to Boomer in time.

He was just goddamned  _sorry_.

"I just want to go  _home_." When Clint's voice broke a little at that last word, Phil felt his own eyes mist. "Can we just go home?" He'd never heard Clint's voice sound like that. He'd never heard that level of emotion in his tone  _ever_.

"Okay." He found himself agreeing. "Okay. We'll go home."

Relief seemed to sweep through Clint like a wave and he didn't pull away from the hand Phil had on his neck this time…almost seemed to lean into it instead.

"We'll go home."

* * *

End of Chapter 9

You can put the pitchforks down...you had to know, deep down, that Boomer wasn't going to make it. This mission - every time it's talked about - is referred to as one of the worst. If Boomer had lived, that wouldn't have been the case. Besides, Clint needed that push to grow towards the version of Hawkeye that we know and love. :) Please don't hate me!

Comments are like oxygen - please don't let me suffocate!

And your preview...

* * *

_"Clint, STOP!"_

_Clint didn't want to stop. He came at Phil again. If he came hard enough, often enough, Phil would have to hit back. Clint wanted him to hit back._

_He moved at Phil again, swinging out with a left hook._

_Phil ducked under it, shoved against Clint's passing elbow and sent him stumbling to the right._

_And then there were arms around his chest, locking his arms to his sides and holding him in place._

_Clint shouted in frustration again and bucked against the hold._

_"Kid, I know it hurts. I know. But this isn't the way to deal with it."_


	10. There'll Be Peace When You Are Done

_The challenge to see who can name the song this story uses as its chapter titles continues! If you have a guess, put it in a comment and if you're right you'll get a shout out!_

_Shout out to those who guessed the song correctly last chapter:_ **  
**

_Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 9:_ **hgb, Isi7140, GoldOwl89, Morenavbby, Evenstar129, immertreu, Hamham2931**

_To_ **immertreu:**   _Phil is in his mid-thirties._

Special _thanks to_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their amazing and awesome beta abilities! If Dan said it, Kylen spoke it :)_

_Before we start – anybody catch the mention of Barton in AOS last night?! I might have cheered a little…and now I want to know the story behind that assassin ALMOST killing Barton a few years back…_

_And uh…AGENT CARTER! Can I please have that premiere NOW!_

_Time for Chapter 10!_

* * *

_That which does not kill us makes us stronger.  
_ _**Friedrich Nietzsche** _

* * *

The entire drive back to the Cairo base Phil just kept waiting for Clint to fall asleep or pass out, one or the other. But neither happened. Instead, he just sat silently in the passenger seat with his head tipped back wearily against the headrest and his gaze fixed on the window.

Phil had wished he had time for Clint to stop and process back at the compound. Now he almost wished he could have kept Clint moving, kept him from stopping and thinking. Because this pensive, weighted silence was far too reminiscent of the kind of silence Clint wrapped himself in back in the beginning.

Back when he first brought Clint in, he wasn't the Clint Barton Phil had come to know – not yet. But he wasn't the Hawkeye Phil had met in Vienna anymore either. He had been caught somewhere in between. It had been heartbreaking to watch, frustrating to deal with, and a relief to move past.  _That_  Clint had wanted to move forward, but he hadn't thought he was worthy of a new beginning. He'd been harder on himself than anybody else could ever be – and that was something about Clint's personality that hadn't changed. He was his own worst critic and Phil didn't think that would ever change.

Now it was like Phil was looking into the past. He could almost hear the self-berating thoughts rebounding around in Clint's head. He could hear him blaming himself for Boomer. He could hear him blaming himself for not getting the job done faster. He could hear him berating himself for slipping so far back into his old behavior patterns.

Silence – this kind of heavy, charged silence – was never good when it came to Clint. It was a breeding ground for the type of thoughts that led Clint to do things like pick a fight with other agents, to fire his bow until his hands were shaking so hard he could barely grip, to doing something,  _anything,_ to make himself feel like he'd made up for some part of his long list of perceived sins.

It had taken a long time to get to the point where Clint would talk to him instead of head straight for the self-punishment. Phil didn't want to lose that progress, and he didn't want to lose that part of their relationship.

Back when Clint first came to SHIELD, Phil didn't push. He didn't try to force him to talk and deal with whatever emotions he was feeling. But they'd moved past that. Before this God-forsaken mission, he hadn't been afraid to push anymore. He'd been confident enough in his relationship with Clint that he could be a little more forceful without risking him pulling away and running.

He hoped that was still true. He hoped that even with all that had happened, Clint still trusted the brotherhood they'd built over the last year.

And in the end, he knew he couldn't just sit here silently and let Clint drown in the silence, not now that he knew what that silence meant.

"Clint, don't do this to yourself." He kept his voice quiet and calm, hoping he could draw Clint out of his shell without having to use a battering ram. But Clint didn't respond, barely even reacted. All Phil's words got was a clenched jaw and a thick swallow.

Battering ram it was. He hardened his tone and slid a firm glance at his passenger.

"You aren't –"

"Phil." Clint interrupted sharply and without looking at him. "Just don't."

"Clint…"

"You can't make it better." The archer cut him off again and this time turned his head to look at him and there was nothing but anger in his gaze and fire in his tone. "Nothing you can say will make any of this  _better_. So just  _don't_ , all right? Cuz I don't want to hear it."

With that Clint turned his head away again, glaring out the window. Phil took a breath, reminded himself of all Clint had been through, and let it go for now.

"Well, you're going to hear it, kid, sooner or later."

"Then make it later." The sharp, clipped words clearly told Phil the conversation – if it could even be called that – was over.

Phil accepted it for now. There would be time to deal with all of it once Clint had been treated. But he couldn't quite shake the feeling that waiting until later, would only make the situation worse. But battering ram or not, he'd learned the hard way that once Clint really shut down, there was no getting through to him until he  _let you_.

And Clint was well and truly shut down right now, so waiting had become his only option.

So Phil fell silent and refocused on his driving.

* * *

"I want you to lay down, no arguments."

Phil didn't wait for a response before he dug into one of the supply drawers and pulled out several blankets. He spread them out on an open stretch of floor and then turned to Clint.

The archer was just standing there staring at some spot on the floor and didn't even seem to be listening.

"Clint."

The call got Clint to raise his gaze and meet Phil's but he made no move to lay down.

"Lay down." Phil repeated the directive again and threw in a gesture towards the pallet of blankets.

Clint stared at him for a moment and then blinked.

"Don't you need a co-pilot?"

Phil suddenly wanted to deck him – at least that way he'd be horizontal.

"Damn it, Clint. Don't fight me on this, you have a major concussion…"

"Wouldn't that make sleeping bad?" Clint countered in a tone dripping with sarcasm. "You know, risk of a coma and all that."

That was it. Phil was done playing this the nice way.

"Yeah, well,  _exhaustion_  makes sleeping GOOD! Nothing is gonna heal if you don't let your body rest, so I will put you down myself if I have to, do you hear me?"

Clint's eyebrow arched critically and he still made no move towards the blankets.

"You gonna put me down, Phil? Really?" There was the sarcasm again. It wasn't even that Clint was challenging that Phil  _could_  put him down – and at this point it might even be easy. It was Clint challenging that Phil  _would_.

And maybe Clint knew him too well. Phil was not anxious to add any more abuse to Clint's already very abused body – if he could avoid that, he would. That meant playing his trump card, even if it felt cruel.

"He died so that you could live."

He might as well have hit him, the effect was just about the same. Clint looked shocked, pulled completely back to reality. But most of all, he looked  _hurt_. But Phil was done pulling punches – Clint's health was more important.

"You gonna waste that?" Phil challenged. "Because that's what you're doing. You keep pushing yourself and you are going to go down,  _hard_. And I get it," Phil took a measured step forward. "You want to hurt. You want to be miserable and in pain. You think you deserve it. But he didn't die for that. He died so that you could  _live_ , not so that you could just let yourself die more slowly."

Clint sighed.

"I'm not  _dying_ , Phil."

"If you think that's the point I'm making, you're being purposefully dense."

Clint's eyes cut away and Phil knew that was as close to admitting obstinacy as Clint would get.

"Look," Phil took a step closer and pitched his voice low, "I know you can't just  _let_ yourself off the hook. I know it's not that simple or that easy." Clint's eyes drifted back to his and Phil pushed further. "But wouldn't he want you to take care of yourself?" Clint's jaw clenched and his eyes watered. "I know I didn't know him, but don't you think he would have wanted that?"

Clint didn't answer, but his eyes dropped to look at the pallet of blankets Phil had set up. Phil knew he was close, he almost had him. Guilting him into resting felt like a low move, especially when it was obvious bringing up Boomer put Clint in a different kind of pain that was just as severe as whatever he was physically feeling. But it was the only move Clint had left him.

Something passed through Clint's gaze, something Phil didn't have a chance to identify before it was gone. But whatever it was, it seemed to just add to the weight settled on Clint's shoulders. Phil tilted his head to try and catch Clint's gaze, hoping his this could be his last push.

"I know it's what  _I_  want – what I  _need_. I need for you to take care of yourself, kid." He let a portion of the emotion that had been overwhelming him during the last twenty four hours bleed into his tone. Because he did need this. He needed it more than he needed anything else right now. He needed to know that Clint was going to be okay. And since Clint wasn't going to let anybody else take care of him at this point, he was going to have to do it himself – even if Phil had to force him.

Just when Phil was sure neither the Boomer reference nor his personal plea were going to get him anywhere, Clint moved.

He headed slowly over to the blankets without a word and without looking at Phil. Watching him lower himself to the blankets was almost physically painful, but Phil knew better than to offer help.

Finally, Clint stretched out on his back, jaw tight and eyes clenched. A few measured breaths later, his jaw loosened and he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling of the jet.

"I've got a couple calls to make and then we'll get airborne." Phil promised before quietly fishing the satellite phone out of his cargo pocket. He headed into the cockpit and quickly dialed Fury's number.

" _Fury."_

"It's Coulson. What's the situation at the compound?"

" _The Cairo clean-up crew got the last of whatever mercenaries were on site swept up about ten minutes ago_ _. I assume you and Barton got away clean."_

"Yes, sir. We're on our jet now. I just have a few more things to nail down before we take off."

There was a moment of silence and then Fury came back sounding vaguely incredulous.

" _Take off? I assumed you would be tying Barton to an infirmary bed until he was given the all-clear by a professional."_

Phil sighed and leaned out of the cockpit to check on Clint. He was overwhelmingly relieved to see Clint's head loosely tilted to the left, his eyes closed, mouth slightly open and breathing relatively even. He was asleep –  _finally_.

"Clint put up a fairly convincing argument to head straight back to New York."

" _Fine. Then we'll see you in_ _ten hours._ _"_

It was just like Fury to not get wrapped up in the details or ask for explanations about things that were, at the end of the day, inconsequential. Phil was relieved he tended to defer to Phil's judgment, especially when it came to Clint.

"Would you mind putting me through to Dan Wilson? I have some things to run by him before we get airborne."

Fury took the request without pausing. Phil heard the intercom beep and then Fury's voice again, though it was muffled as if he had the phone held away from his mouth.

" _Get me Dan Wilson."_

An even more distorted voice replied something Phil couldn't quite understand and then Fury was back on the line.

" _He'll be here momentarily. Why do you take this opportunity to give me a preliminary report on the Ruiz situation?"_

Phil sighed and nodded even though Fury couldn't see him. Then he launched into a basic report of his and Clint's assault on the compound and the altercation with Ruiz and Cohen.

"I called it in after I put down Cohen and Clint had Ruiz down a few moments later. We cleared out pretty quickly after that. I wanted to make sure we were clear before the team got there."

" _Sounds like it all went as smoothly as you could have hoped."_

Phil thought of Boomer, but didn't mention him. He didn't want to explain that situation over the phone. It would all be in his final report.

" _Wilson is here. I'll hand you over."_

"Thank you, sir."

There was a muffled explanation as Fury told Dan why he'd been summoned. And then Dan's voice came across the line.

" _What's going on?_ " Dan's voice was husky with exhaustion and emotion.  _"How bad is it? What the hell happened with the explosion? Was he near it? What's happened since? Is he–"_

"He's alive, Dan." Phil interrupted the rapid fire questioning, eyes going to Clint again as if to reassure himself that he was speaking the truth. The archer was still sleeping on, unaware. "And he's mobile."

Well, he had been, mostly.

Over the line, Dan heaved a long, deep sigh.

" _Thank God."_

Phil could hear the honest relief in the doctor's tone, but knew he couldn't leave him thinking all was well when it really,  _really_ wasn't.

"Before you get too grateful, he's not exactly in perfect health either. That's why I called."

Dan snorted sarcastically, but when he spoke his tone still carried a note of relief.

" _Why do you think I asked all the questions? So, list it off. Tell me what I'm working with here and why you're not just taking him to the Cairo infirmary?"_

Now it was Phil's turn to sigh.

"He's…" Phil rubbed his eyes and let them settle on Clint. "He's not up for sticking around Cairo. So we're heading straight back to New York. I need to know what I can do for him between now and when we land."

" _All right, what are we dealing with?"_  Dan didn't sound exactly pleased, but Phil was relieved he didn't argue.

"He's got a pretty serious concussion, broken ribs, a broken collar bone, a broken  _arm_ , electrical burns, a nasty laceration across his back, and some good old fashioned cuts and bruises just to keep things from getting too boring."

" _What, no bullet holes or stab wounds, too?"_  Dan's voice dripped with sarcasm, but all the words did was remind Phil of something he'd forgotten. He rubbed his hand through his hair wearily.

"I forgot to mention the goddamned dog bite that caused the broken arm – does that count?"

" _Jesus."_  Dan sighed, tone serious again.  _"I take it you don't know whether the dog was rabid or not?"_

"I have no idea. We haven't exactly had the chance for a debrief and Clint's finally sleeping, so I can't ask him."

Dan was silent for a long moment before speaking.

" _Okay, let him sleep. I'm guessing he's had damned little of that since this whole shit storm started. Make sure you get him up for concussion checks, but other than that…"_ Dan blew out a breath.  _"You gotten a chance to take any vitals? Temp, blood pressure, that sort of thing?"_

Phil sighed, rubbing his eyes again.

"I haven't. I can tell you he's definitely running a fever though. I could tell that by touch, but I'm not sure how bad."

" _Grab those and a pulse for me. Simple evaluation, so I know he won't, you know, die on the flight home."_  Dan tried to keep the comment light, but the hitch in his voice betrayed him.

Phil didn't know what to say to reassure him, so he just retrieved the first aid kit and moved to Clint's side as quietly as he could. He pulled the blood pressure cuff out of the kit and gently touched Clint's shoulder. He stirred immediately, tensing, pulling away and blinking blearily in Phil's general direction.

"Relax," Phil soothed quietly. "It's just me. I've got to take your vitals."

The only acknowledgement he got was another heavy blink before Clint let his head drop back onto the blankets and his eyes drift closed again. Phil took that as permission to slip the blood pressure cuff into place. Several minutes later he'd gotten that reading, a temperature, and a pulse. He sat back on his heels and listed off the results to Dan.

"BP is 100 over 68, temp is 101.3, and pulse is 104."

He patted Clint's bicep when the archer stirred.

"Go back to sleep." He whispered quietly as he rose. He moved over to the other side of the jet in an attempt to give Clint a chance to do just that. "Now what?" He asked Dan quietly.

" _Not as bad as I feared, anyhow. Can you tell me how much pain he's in?"_

"Oh hell, Dan, you know Clint. His arm could be falling off and he wouldn't let on to anybody. But he's got broken bones, so I imagine whatever he's feeling is probably pretty bad."

" _Okay, so Tylenol's not going to cut it."_  Dan was silent for a long moment.  _"You feel like you can make the flight home with him like this?"_

Considering Phil had made the flight  _here_  with Clint  _dead_ , this should be a cake walk.

"He can make it. At this point, staying would only make things worse anyway."

" _I'm trusting you on that, Phil, which is the only reason why I'm not tell you to haul his ass into the infirmary and handcuff him to the bed. Anyone else, I would tell you to do it anyhow, but I've heard he's pretty good with a lock pick."_

Phil found himself chuckling wearily at that.

"Haven't found a pair of cuffs yet that could hold him. So what do I need?"

" _Well, first off, do you feel up to starting an IV?"_

Phil nodded.

"Yeah, I can do that."

" _Figured you could. Okay."_ Dan coughed a short sigh.  _"Got a pen and a pad of paper?"_

"Uh," Phil moved to his pack and fished out the mission file, flipping a page over and digging out a pen. "Yeah, go ahead."

" _Write this down, but take the phone in with you and stay on the line. I'll probably need to authorize some of it."_  Dan blew out a breath.  _"Okay. Get them to give you a pack, you're going to need it. Two liters of lactated ringers to start. Once that's started, I'm going to have you hang some morphine and Cipro. I'll give them the doses and they can give you instructions. You already splint the broken bones?"_

"The best I could with what I had. I didn't mess with trying to set any of them though."

" _Bad breaks or simple fractures?"_

"All of them seem simple as far as I can tell just by looking and feeling, but I'm not an x-ray machine."

" _Okay, just leave the splint on and don't fuck around with it. Your call on whether you want to deal with wrapping his ribs."_

"He's not going to be moving around and seem to be breathing all right at this point, so I won't mess with it."

_"Fair enough. Dammit, Phil, I really don't like this._ _You hit the Atlantic and you've still got six hours of flight time_ _."_

Phil sighed and let his gaze settle on Clint again.

"I hear you, Dan. But he needs to be out of this country. The shit that went down, it's just...it's too much for him right now. I need to bring him home."

_"I get that. But if you think he's going downhill in_ _**any** _ _way, head to Vienna. I know some of the staff there, and I trust them."_

"Fine." Phil agreed. "Now what's next?"

_"Have the infirmary give you an EMT mobile pack. If you need anything else, call me in flight. Just a warning: he's going to end up with a series of rabies shots when he gets back. They're better than they were."_

"I'll let you be the one to tell him that." Phil smirked and finished writing. "I'm heading to the infirmary now."

 _"Get moving. The sooner you're back here, the better everyone's gonna feel."_  Dan let out a long, shaky sigh.  _"Hell, Phil...he scared the SHIT out of people."_

Phil checked to make sure Clint was still out before heading off the jet.

"I'm  _more_  than well aware, Dan."

_"Yeah, I know. Phil...are you OK?"_

That was a loaded question if he'd ever heard one – and definitely one without an easy answer.

"Better than I was four hours ago. That's the best I can do for now."

_"I'll have a glass of good single-malt ready for you when you get back, and you'll tell me and Bryan the whole story. That's an order."_

"As long as I do the telling from your office in the infirmary, you've got a deal."

_"Where else? I'll even make sure you've got a view of Barton from my crappy couch."_

"Sounds like a plan." Phil looked up as the infirmary doors came into view. "I'm at the infirmary."

_"Let's get this shit taken care of then."_

Phil couldn't agree more.

* * *

_Clint latched onto the hand with the blade – his enemy's left – and moved, circling wide around the blade and forcing the other man's arm straight. Then he spun, twisting until his back was against the back of his opponent's now forcefully extended arm. Keeping his right hand firmly wrapped around the other man's left – and subsequently the knife grasped in it – Clint reached back with his left arm, hooking it around the front of his enemy's neck._

_He tightened that arm for leverage and yanked hard on the hand with the knife, forcing his opponent's elbow against his back at the wrong angle. The force of the blow dislocated the other man's joint with a snap and Clint stripped the knife from the hand as it went lax. Then he kicked back with his bare foot, forcing the other man's knee to give way and threw his weight forward, pulling him down hard onto his back with the arm he had around his neck._

_Even as he hit the ground, the other man was reacting. His leg scissored up and hooked around Clint's chest, slamming him back hard onto the ground. His enemy rolled up, following Clint's descent and slammed a closed fist into Clint's cheek._

_It took everything Clint had to ignore the sudden burst of light that exploded in his vision and keep a firm hold on the knife. It was a task made harder by the blood coating his palm from the still-bleeding cut and harder still by the sudden vice-like grip the other man had wrapped around his wrist._

_And of course it was his right hand, the one connected to his broken right collar bone._

_His enemy's weight bore down on him as the larger man straddled Clint's waist. Then his other hand locked down around Clint's throat and all at once "breathing" just wasn't something that was happening for him._

_And then everything sharpened into intense, terrifyingly clear focus._

_He saw his path. The string of moves he needed to make to put that knife through the enemy's neck._

_And in the back of his mind, he was counting. Because there was one thing about Clint that his opponent wouldn't be counting on._

_6 minutes and 26 seconds._

_When he made it past a minute and the grip on his throat was just bruising – hurt like hell but just bruising – Clint knew his plan was going to work._

_Clint made it to three and a half minutes before he pretended to pass out._

_Thirty seconds later the hand around his neck loosened fractionally, but Clint didn't dare draw in a breath._

_His first move was made blindly, made effective by instinct alone._

_He slid his left hand up and around the back of his enemy's neck and jerked his head down at the same time Clint pulled himself up. His forehead cracked into the other man's nose with a sickening crunch and blood was suddenly covering both of them._

_His enemy was only able to draw in a shocked gasp before Clint was_ _bringing his knees up hard into his opponent's back, knocking the other man forward and dislodging his weight on Clint's waist. While the man was off balance, Clint was able to twist his lower body free of his weight and curl up – ignoring broken ribs and the rough ground digging into the wound on his back. He contorted and twisted, locking his knees around his enemy's head from the side and then twisted him forcefully down to the ground. He used the momentum of the move to help him pull his upper body off the ground and a second later he was the one straddling the other man with_ _**his** _ _hand around_ _**the enemy's** _ _throat._

_He slid the knife in above his hand, pressing the edge of the blade up under the other man's chin._

_One of his enemy's hand's scratched at the hand with the knife. The other reached to push against Clint's chest._

_But Clint didn't feel it._

_He didn't hear the shouts and jeers of the crowd._

_He didn't see the suddenly frantic widening of his enemy's eyes as the blade cut into the tender flesh of his throat._

_All he saw was the blood suddenly spilling slowly over the blade._

_The hand pushing against his chest grew more frantic – but Clint ignored it._

_There was only the blood – his enemy's blood. Clint had won. He had survived._

_He always survived._

_And today, survival meant being the killer he always denied. It meant embracing that side of himself._

_It was so much easier than he'd thought it would be – than he'd feared it would be._

_He pressed down with the blade._

" _Hawkeye…"_

_The gasping, panicked, whispered call froze him in place._

_He knew that voice._

" _Please…"_

_And then the world around him sharpened into focus and he saw him. Horror rose inside him as he pulled his gaze up from the blood running over his hand to look at his enemy. His blue-gray eyes crashed into clouded green and Clint realized who he'd been fighting._

_It was Boomer._

_He jerked the blade away from his friend's neck and shifted his hand, wanting to stop the flow of the blood he'd been so eager to spill. But the blood still came fast and thick._

_It was too late._

" _Boomer…" But he didn't know what to say._

" _Hawk…" Boomer coughed and blood bubbled in his mouth. "I helped you."_

_The accusation was clear and sharp and it cut Clint deeper than any knife ever could have._

" _I…" Clint stuttered and tripped over his own voice as he tried to explain – to apologize._

" _I fucking_ _ **saved**_ _you!" Boomer shouted as more blood poured out over Clint's hand._

" _I know." Clint admitted softly, brokenly. "I'm sorry."_

" _You're sorry?" Boomer's voice was suddenly weak again and the anger that had been painted across his face a moment ago was gone, replaced by nothing but pale skin and a look of betrayal. "I saved you and you killed me."_

" _I tried…" Tried to save him. And he'd failed. He'd killed him instead._

" _You killed me, Hawk."_

_Clint blinked and it was over. Boomer's eyes were suddenly unseeing, his skin was as cold as ice. But the blood still flowed. It flowed over Clint's hands, painting them red._

_His hands would always be red – they would always be covered in the blood of innocents._

" _You left me behind."_

_Boomer's voice echoed around him as Clint pushed himself away from the body, pulled his gaze away from the unseeing green eyes._

" _I'm sorry." He whispered again as he backed away._

" _It should have been you."_

* * *

Clint woke with a gasp and shoved his hands against the ground in attempt to aid his rise. His right arm flared in fiery, unforgiving pain, but he ignored it. He kicked his feet against the ground, backing himself off the blankets until his back slammed into the jet wall.

 _It should have been you_.

It should have been him.

Clint felt his hands clench into tight fists as rage bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him.

When would he stop being responsible for the death of innocent people? When would he stop being poison to the world around him?

What did he have to do to be  _good_  – to stop being the bad guy?

But he knew the answer to that now.

He couldn't stop.

The darkness was such a deep, rooted part of his soul that he would never break free of it.

He should have died in that cell, not Boomer. It would have been better than he deserved.

It wasn't until the pain registered that Clint realized he'd stood, that he'd slammed his right fist into the metal wall of the jet.

It hurt – hurt so bad he almost went to his knees.

But Clint embraced the pain, he  _relished_  it.

Because Boomer was right.

It should have been  _him_.

He slammed his other fist into the wall and felt a finger fracture. He turned and grabbed the fire extinguisher strapped to the wall. He pulled it free and threw it across the interior of the jet. The bang of it hitting the opposite wall added fuel to the fire of rage burning in his chest.

He turned again, intent on slamming his right fist into the wall again, but arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back.

A guttural, shout of rage and frustration tore from his throat before he could stop it.

He fought against the arms, instinctively throwing an elbow back and connecting with the soft flesh of a solar plexus.

"Jesus." The coughed exclamation was followed immediately by his release.

Clint spun, swinging out with a left hook.

He hit nothing but air.

"Clint! It's me! It's Phil!"

He knew that. But no part of him cared right now.

Clint struck out again, this time feigning right and landing a solid left cross on Phil's jaw.

"Son of a bitch." Phil spit out a mouthful of fresh blood and easily blocked Clint's next swing.

The sting of Phil's forearm slamming against the splint wrapped around Clint's broken arm sent him stumbling back a step.

"Clint, STOP!"

Clint didn't want to stop. He came at Phil again. If he came hard enough, often enough, Phil would have to hit back. Clint  _wanted_  him to hit back.

He moved at Phil again, swinging out with a left hook.

Phil ducked under it, shoved against Clint's passing elbow and sent him stumbling to the right.

And then there were arms coming from behind and wrapping around his chest, locking his arms to his sides and holding him in place.

Clint shouted in frustration again and bucked against the hold.

"Kid, I know it hurts. I  _know_. But this isn't the way to deal with it."

Clint rebelled against the reminder of the pain he was trying to forget. But while he could ignore physical pain like no one else, he couldn't ignore  _this_  kind of pain. He couldn't ignore the pain of this  _failure_.

He screamed, pulling against Phil's arms, trying to pull away.

"I'm not letting go." Phil insisted sharply, then quieter and softer, "I'm not letting  _you_  go."

There was so much weight in those simple words, so much feeling and such a strong promise. He couldn't handle it. He didn't  _want_ it.

"But I  _want_  you to!" Clint argued bitterly as he strained against Phil's restraining arms, but he didn't have the strength to break free. He was too weak. He was  _always_  too weak. "Just let  _go!"_

Just let him crumble. Let the darkness destroy him. He wasn't worth fighting for, not now – maybe never had been. Why couldn't Phil see that? Why couldn't he just let him go?

"It's not happening, kid." Phil insisted quietly. "I told you I would keep fighting. That I would fight right next to you. I'm here. I'm gonna fight. Will you?"

The memory of their conversation at the airstrip rose in his mind. It felt so long ago, a lifetime. He'd made a decision, in that moment, to keep fighting. Knowing Phil would stand beside him had given him the strength. But not now, not anymore. It wasn't enough.

" _I'm gonna fight. Will you?_ "

No.

He didn't want to fight anymore.

Clint felt his legs go weak but instead of crashing to his knees, the arms around him slowed his descent, eased him carefully to the floor. Hesitantly, the arms loosened, but Clint wasn't going to jump up and take any more swings. The rage that had taken over had bled away, there was nothing left. He had  _nothing_  left. He was nothing.

"It should have been me."

He wasn't even sure he'd said it out loud because for a long moment there was no reply, not even a discernible reaction. And when the reply came, he wished it hadn't. He couldn't take the poorly concealed emotion in Phil's voice.

"I know it feels that way right now. But what happened to…" Phil paused and drew in a shaky breath and blew it out. "What happened…it wasn't your fault."

Clint couldn't even find the strength to put a voice to his denial of that. He couldn't find the strength to even shake his head. All he could do was sit there with is eyes on his hands.

If he looked hard enough, he could see the blood.

"I need you to hear me on that."

Phil could say it, he could yell it, he could shout it from the rooftops…but Clint wouldn't agree,  _couldn't_. Because Phil was wrong.

Phil sighed in what sounded like resignation. "You don't want to accept that right now, I get it. That's fine." It didn't sound like Phil was 'fine' with it, but he didn't press the issue so Clint took the words at face value. "What about this? I know won't help with anything but the physical, but it's the best I can do. And I just need to know you're not hurting any more than you need to be."

Clint didn't raise his gaze to see what Phil was talking about.

"It's morphine."

Morphine. It would dull the pain all right and probably work hand in hand with his current state of exhaustion to put him right back to sleep. But he didn't want the pain to go away. He wanted to feel it, all of it.

"Please, Clint."

Something in Phil's tone, something bordering on desperate, had Clint's gaze drifting up to meet his handler's. What he saw there just broke him further. Phil wasn't just desperate – he was worried and hurting and sad all at once. Clint was causing that, he was hurting Phil now too.

"I know you don't want it. But I need you to have it. Just… _please_ …for my sake, if not for your own."

Phil was pleading with him. Phil never pleaded. Phil was confident and strong. He was sure of himself and calm. He wasn't desperate. He wasn't pleading.

Clint wanted to fix whatever he'd broken in Phil. Phil deserved that, at least, from him.

So he found himself nodding before he'd even made a conscious decision to agree.

He didn't even feel the prick of the needle, but the rush of warmth that flooded his veins was practically tangible. He didn't remember moving, but suddenly he was on his back again, stretched out on the blankets.

"Just rest, Clint. I'll be right here with you."

Something in those words brought a new kind of warmth, but Clint didn't have a chance to analyze that before everything just faded away.

* * *

Phil let out a slow deep sigh and sat back, watching Clint's face to make sure he was really asleep. He was, but it was a small comfort. Even asleep, his expression was lined with distress. But Clint wasn't ready to deal with the real cause of that right now, so there was nothing Phil could do about it. Not yet at least.

But he could do something about the injuries.

So for the next several minutes he carefully followed Dan's instructions to set up an IV and more thoroughly treat the bleeding wounds. Clint stirred restlessly throughout the entire process, but never woke.

Finally, satisfied he'd done all he could, Phil pushed up to his feet and moved to the cockpit. Minutes later they were airborne and on a course bound for New York.

Phil sat back in the pilot's seat and twisted, straining to see around the cockpit opening to where Clint was laid out. From what Phil could see, the teen hadn't moved. He hadn't really expected anything different, but it was still a relief.

Phil turned back and let his head fall back on the headrest.

And he just breathed.

And in that quiet, calm moment…everything that had happened in the last twenty four hours slammed into him. The overwhelming wave of emotion that swept through him had him squeezing his eyes closed and fighting against the tightness in his throat.

He wanted to keep it together. He wanted to stay calm and cool.

But God help him, it was just too much.

He lurched forward, all but slamming his palm onto the control that would close the cockpit door. Then he dropped his head on to his forearm and just let go.

With one hand clenched around the edge of the console, the other fisted where it rested across the metal, Phil let everything wash through him.

The trepidation he'd felt sending Clint on this mission alone. The worry that had consumed him when he sensed Clint slipping. The all-consuming fear that had enveloped him when the comm line went dead. The intense denial that had welled in him when the evidence had started to point to the unthinkable. The absolute devastation and heartbreak when Clint's death had been confirmed. The knowledge that he'd failed what had become the most important mission of his life. Then the obsession that had taken over when he'd arrived in Cairo, the drive to find Ruiz and kill him. The frustrated annoyance when someone broke into the safe house.

And then the shock and disbelief when Clint had turned and asked him not to shoot him.

Then had come the relief.

And it was still there, coming strong and fast.

But on its heels was the feeling of helplessness that enveloped him now. Clint was falling apart before his eyes, was maybe already beyond reach. And he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to stop it or how to help.

He'd gotten Clint back, but now he felt like he was losing him all over again.

It was that, that overwhelming feeling and fear that finally did him in.

He curled in on himself and clenched a hand over his mouth in an attempt to mute the ragged, gasping breaths that forced their way out in time with the hot, wet tears that started overflowing from his tightly closed eyes.

Time passed without meaning, but eventually Phil was able to pull his control back. He built it up around him like a fortress and forced himself to take calm, even breaths. Clint needed him, maybe needed him more now than he ever had before.

Because while there had been something broken in Clint when they met, it hadn't been like this. He hadn't been  _shattered_. It hadn't been this raw. He had known from the start that Clint could find his way out of the darkness.

Now…now he was more worried that Clint didn't  _want_  to find his way out of the darkness. He wanted to drown in it. And Phil didn't know what to do to convince him to fight for himself again.

Phil sighed and sat back in his seat again, scrubbing his hands wearily over his face.

He drew in one last deep, calming breath and reached for the control to open the cockpit door. He checked the auto pilot to ensure that it was set to handle the flight and then stood, moving quietly back into the main area of the jet.

Clint was still down for the count, but his rest wasn't peaceful. Distress lines still creased his forehead. He was still shifting restlessly every few moments, like he couldn't quite get comfortable. Though that wasn't all that surprising considering the extent of his injuries and the fact that he was laying on a practically flayed back.

But sleep was good so Phil would take it even in this restless, distressed form.

He should really try and sleep himself, but as he lowered himself into one of the passenger seats lining the side of the jet, he knew it wasn't going to happen. Now that Clint was in his line of sight again, he was having a hard time pulling his gaze away. It was irrational, but he had a horrifying feeling that if he went to sleep, he'd wake up and this would all end up being a dream. That he would wake up and still be stuck in the nightmare of twenty four hours ago.

That Clint  _wouldn't_  be alive.

He would have to wake Clint in a little while for a concussion check anyway. So trying to sleep himself wasn't quite worth it at this point.

So Phil reached for his bag, dug out a fresh pad of paper and started working on the first draft of what would eventually become his report. But as he brought the pen to paper, he couldn't make his hand move. Putting the last few hours into words…it seemed impossible. You couldn't put the pain of thinking Clint was dead into words and he didn't want to try. You couldn't explain the obsession behind his vow to kill Ruiz, however temporary it was, without sounding like a vengeful killer. He couldn't describe the relief he'd felt when the stranger that managed to break into the safe house turned out to be Clint. He couldn't even explain the story behind the car bomb because he had no idea what had actually happened. He didn't know who had blown the Hummer or why.

With a sigh, Phil placed his pen on the pad and slid them both back into his bag. Then he settled back in the seat and fixed his eyes on Clint's chest, watching the slow rise and fall, and feeling tension start to melt away.

* * *

End of Chapter 10

I would love to hear everyone's thoughts on the Age of Ultron trailer that showed during AOS last night! I was enthralled and can't wait for may! Oh and what did you think of the chapter too? lol :D

Only two chapters to go!

Comments are fuel for my weary soul!

And in the meantime...

* * *

_"Where's Boomer?" Clint demanded._

_Cohen shook his head just as the door burst open and two men stepped through it._

_"Let her go, Barton."_

_Clint frowned and backed up further, pulling Cohen with him._

_"Stay back or I'll kill him."_

_"Barton…"_

_"Back up!" Clint snapped._


	11. Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

_Shout out to_ **l_ostsheep3**   _for nailing the song the chapter titles are from!_

_Thanks to all who commented on Chapter 10:_ **immertreu, Isi7140, l_ostsheep3, bladeandroses, GoldOwl89, EndlessMidnightSky,**

_Special thanks to_ **Kylen** _and_ **JRBarton** _for their amazing and awesome beta abilities! Dan's voice, as per usual, is from_ **Kylen's** _mouth :D_

_Time to dive in! Enjoy Chapter 11!_

* * *

_The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.  
_ _**Ernest Hemingway** _

* * *

Phil sighed, pulled off his headset and powered down the jet.

They were home, finally, after ten long hours. Phil could readily admit he was exhausted. He hadn't slept, and he should have – should have at least tried. But he hadn't. Watching over Clint, making sure he was all right, and waking him for concussion checks every couple of hours had seemed more important.

But something about being back in New York, safely landed on base, seemed to lift some sort of weight from his shoulders. He wearily pushed up from the pilot's chair and made his way to Clint's side, ready to wake him one more time.

He was saved the trouble though, because Clint was already awake. When Phil thought about it, he'd probably woken on his own when the jet touched down. He hadn't made any attempt to rise yet, and that had Phil mentally counting back to when he'd last given him morphine.

Too long ago.

Phil held out a hand.

"Infirmary's got a bed with your name on it. All you gotta do is make it to the wheelchair I'm sure Dan has waiting right outside."

Clint scowled and wrapped his left hand around the one Phil had offered.

"I don't need a damn wheelchair."

The firm insistence – made a little harder to understand because Clint's voice just kept getting worse – didn't hold a lot of weight when Phil had to do most of the work to pull Clint up to his feet and then had to hold him steady while he got his bearings. But Phil wouldn't step into that power play until the wheelchair was close enough to force him into.

"Ready?" Phil asked as he moved to the control that would lower the ramp.

Clint nodded and Phil hit the control. Once the ramp started to lower, Phil looked back to Clint. He watched the archer take one stiff, painful-looking step forward and immediately tense, the corners of his eyes and mouth tightening in pain.

Phil took a step towards him, but Clint waved him off immediately.

"Phil, just…don't." Clint ground out a frustrated, short groan. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit." Phil stepped closer, catching sight of Dan waiting in the hangar with a wheelchair. "You've got nothing to prove to anybody here, Clint. Nobody is going to notice or care if you walk to the infirmary or get wheeled."

He reached for Clint's arm to steady him as they started down the ramp, but the teen roughly pushed his hand away.

"Just back off, okay? I can walk." Clint growled.

"Barton, you barely look like you can stand, much less walk." Dan chimed in as they finally made it down the ramp.

"No one asked you," Clint snapped as he moved past Dan and the wheelchair. He made surprisingly fast – if stiff and painful to look at – progress across the hangar, leaving Phil standing with Dan.

"You collapse between here and there and I'm leaving your ass in the middle of the hallway, Barton." Dan threatened.

"Just let him go, Dan." Phil sighed. "He's going to the infirmary without argument, let's just count that as a win." Though at the moment it felt like the  _only_  win they had at the moment – other than Clint being alive.

Dan muttered something under his breath and started pushing the wheelchair in the direction Clint had gone.

"What was that?" Phil called after him as he signed the jet back over to the hangar chief.

"You people and your 'counting things as a win.'" Dan repeated loudly and clearly over his shoulder in a tone both totally unapologetic and dripping with sarcasm. "It's just an excuse you all use when things are screwed to hell."

Phil didn't really have grounds to disagree with that assessment, so he just kept his mouth shut and followed after Dan. Given Clint's current mood, a buffer was going to be a necessity. He just hoped they didn't arrive at the infirmary to already find bloodshed.

However, much to Phil's surprise, when he and Dan caught up to Clint in the infirmary, he was not only allowing a nurse to take his vitals, but he was sitting quietly on a bed without offering a bit of protest.

If it didn't strike fresh worry deep into his soul, Phil would have been pleased with the progress. Clint cooperating with medical professionals in any capacity was usually cause for celebration, but this was different. It was like he wasn't even in the room with them. He was checked out, his gaze completely distant.

For all intents and purposes, he didn't appear at all engaged in what was going on around him. Considering the concussion concerns, it was enough to send alarm bells off in Phil's head.

"Barton?" Dan had apparently picked up on the out of character detachment as well.

But instead of staying unfocused and detached, Clint's gaze drifted to Dan's and then to Phil's immediately and unerringly as if to prove to both of them at the same time that he wasn't in immediate and urgent need of a CT scan.

He didn't hold the eye contact for long, though, before he was letting his gaze drop away again, fixed on some point on the floor. So it wasn't the concussion then, at least not in whole. Clint just…didn't seem to care. And considering his own medical treatment tended to be something he intensely cared about – usually very loudly – the lack of interest and engagement was unnerving. It had Phil wishing for the usual combative behavior they'd all become accustomed to.

Phil took a step forward, intent on doing or saying  _something_ , but Dan caught his arm and spoke.

"Phil, why don't you go grab a shower and get some shut eye in my office. I think Steph and I can handle this."

Phil snapped his gaze over to Dan in disbelief. He couldn't remember a time when Clint had been treated in the infirmary without Phil within eye shot  _at least_. He was sure the mere suggestion of him leaving would snap Clint out of…whatever this was.

But when Phil looked to Clint for a reaction, there wasn't one. There wasn't even an acknowledgement of what Dan had suggested.

More worry grew in Phil's gut.

"Look, Phil," Dan pitched his voice low and spoke under his breath. "He's not fighting us right now. You said it yourself, that's a win. You'll be in a better position to fix whatever the hell is wrong if you're on the right side of a few hours of sleep. I can handle this."

Phil opened his mouth to protest, but closed it just as quickly.

"I'll get you if something changes," Dan promised seriously.

Phil looked at Clint once again, but Clint didn't look at him. It was a radical change from a few months ago when Dan and his staff couldn't make a move without Phil giving it the go-ahead nod. It was  _too_  radical and did nothing but put Phil even more ill at ease with the situation.

But it was hard to argue with Dan when Clint didn't appear to care one way or another if he was there. It was even harder to argue when Phil  _knew_  he needed to get some rest. Maybe grabbing some shut-eye would give him a new perspective, and maybe some insight on how to go about rebuilding Clint's shattered psyche.

Because if he was honest, he had no idea what to do – how to fix this. He wasn't sure if he even could – or at this point, if Clint would even let him try.

"Fine." He backed up a step and gave Dan a nod. He looked at Clint one more time and debated on whether he should say anything before he left. In this state, Clint might not care whether he said anything or not.

But that didn't mean that he didn't still need to hear it, or that Phil didn't still need to say it.

"I won't be far. If you need anything just…" Phil blew out a breath, fighting down a wave of disappointment when he didn't even get a glance. "I won't be far." He repeated quietly before turning and walking away. And no matter how much he tried to convince himself it was the right move for now, walking away from Clint would never feel anything but  _wrong_.

* * *

Dan watched Phil head towards the infirmary locker room and sighed. That was one problem down – Phil's exhaustion had been painfully obvious.

Now to deal with his other big problem. He turned to face Barton in time to see him staring intently at Phil's retreating back.

Not so disinterested then. No real surprise there. But if Barton wasn't going to make an issue over it, neither would Dan.

"What are we looking at, Steph?"

The nurse handed over the chart she'd been quietly making notes on. Dan looked it over quickly and then stepped closer to Barton.

"Steph, why don't you go prep x-ray and CT for me? I'll bring Barton down myself in a few."

She nodded and moved quickly out of the room.

Dan eyed up Clint for a long, long moment, then looked at the clipboard. Nothing was completely out of whack, but Dan had no doubt there would be a lot of pieces to put back together.

At least he only had the physical ones, he thought ruefully. Dan didn't envy Phil at the moment. Whatever – or whoever – had gotten into Barton's head was wreaking havoc.

Dan looked up from the clipboard to find Barton still quiet and cooperative.

He couldn't deal with that from Barton. It just didn't spin with the universe as Dan knew it. So, he leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms against the chart.

"Mind telling me what's going through your head right now, Barton?"

Barton showed no reaction but a slow blink. He kept his gaze pinned on some spot low on the wall and didn't reply.

So that was a 'no', then.

Dan sighed.

"Okay, can you at least cooperate long enough to run through a concussion check with me?"

Barton's gaze shifted up to meet his and then back to the same spot on the wall.

Dan supposed that meant 'yes,' but the lack of verbal responses was starting to wind him up. He hissed a breath through his teeth, and decided to poke the tiger with a stick.

"Dammitall, Barton, I need you to talk to me, or I'm going to start assuming you're catatonic on top of a concussion and I'm getting psych in here. I really,  _really_ don't want to do that, so you think you could play ball with me and maybe say a few words?"

He expected defiance, maybe some of the usual fire that tended to light up Barton's gaze when he was in the infirmary. Instead, he got another slow blink and Barton's eye rose to meet his once again.

"Fine."

Dan inwardly sighed with relief. Responsiveness at least – or rather, Barton's definition of the word.

"Do you know what the date is?"

A muscle in Barton's jaw twitched.

"No."

Dan blinked. Well, scratch one question anyhow.

"Okay, how about your full name – and while you're at it, give me your handler's full name, too."

"Clint Barton. Phil Coulson."

Dan gritted his teeth and fought the urge to ask Barton for middle names.

"Fine. Where are you right now?"

"The infirmary on the New York SHIELD base."

Dan nodded.

"What to tell me the trouble with the date, then?"

The muscle in Barton's jaw twitched again.

"Over two weeks of deep cover and a hell of a lot of lost time over the past two days…lost track."

Dan raised an eyebrow.

"And you're admitting to that?"

"Would you rather I denied it?" Barton's tone lacked the usual sarcasm such words would usually carry. Instead he just sounded…tired.

"No, not really. Just wondering where the new cooperative Barton's come from and whether I get to keep him for any period of time." Dan frowned, then sighed. "Look, kid ... physically, I mean, you're beat to hell, but there's nothing here I can't deal with. What I  _don't_  understand ... I mean ... this isn't you, and I'd like to know why."

Barton just stared at him with a stony expression.

Dan rolled his eyes.

"You know what, like it or not, Barton, people around here care about you. I just want to understand what's going on. So I can limp you along until Phil manages some sleep and can deal with whatever's rattling around inside your head."

Barton's eyes narrowed and something in them darkened.

"Look, you wanna patch me up? Fine. But that's the only reason I'm here. I don't need or want any hand-holding, kumbaya shit from you."

Dan wanted to scream. Really, he did. Trying to get through Barton's head some days was like Russian roulette. Inevitably, it would blow up in your face - and it just had.

He tried to maneuver out of it, holding up his hands in self-defense.

"I've got a shitty singing voice, kid. Haven't you heard?" Dan snorted softly, trying to show a little good humor. "Just trying to figure out how much of your current attitude is the concussion, and how much might be something more."

"CT scan's probably not for nothing, if that helps." Barton replied. Dan realized he'd hit the proverbial wall.

"In other words, shut up and leave you the fuck alone? Patch up the holes and let you brood?"

"And they say you're not perceptive."

Dan made a face.

"Nice, Barton. Fine. Get your ass in that wheelchair and I'll take you down to x-ray. Be forewarned: this isn't simple this time. Your arm's going to need a cast, the broken collarbone needs to be immobilized - and ..." Dan sighed. "You need rabies shots."

Barton scowled.

"It was a  _guard_  dog."

Dan scowled back.

"Can you show me a license, right now, that guarantees that damned dog had its shots?"

Barton's scowl just deepened and he didn't reply.

Dan tried looking him in the eye.

"C'mon, kid. Rabies is a pretty damned horrible death. Let me at least spare you that."

"Fine."

And with that Barton levered himself off the bed and into the wheelchair with nothing more than a grimace.

Dan watched him, knowing there was more to Barton's pain. But – as he tended to be with Barton – he was stuck between the wall and the kid's attitude.

"Fine." He got behind the chair and pushed. Nothing was ever easy with Barton.

Nothing.

Dan watched as Clint settled back into the bed. True to the universe known as Barton, he'd been mostly silent, borderline unresponsive and entirely too cooperative as Dan had set his arm, slung the broken collarbone and put in more stitches than he'd wanted to count.

"Well, that takes care of most of the treatable stuff. Now, let me go find you a painkiller and you can get some sleep."

Barton's left hand shot out with impressive speed and latched onto Dan's wrist to keep him from moving away.

"No pain meds." He said it in a tone of steely resolve that left no room for debate, but Dan had sensed that was coming and fired right back.

"Don't even  _think_  about starting that shit with me today, Barton. You aren't going to be doing yourself any favors by refusing them. Your body needs a chance to heal."

Barton's expression was unmoved.

"I don't nee–"

"Oh, bullshit." Somewhere in the back of his head, Dan realized he wasn't helping the situation, but after the last 48 hours, something needed to give.

He needed Barton to not be hurting.

"Listen to me, Barton." Dan got close, and let every bit of the emotions he'd been shoving down surface. "I may not be Phil, but I'm not a fucking idiot. You don't carry injuries like yours without paying a price. You're dealing with some serious shit, fine. You don't want to talk to me,  _fine_. But I'm not going to let you use  _pain_ as a coping mechanism. So for my sake – and for Phil's – take the damn meds because he'd kick my ass if I left you here hurting."

Barton held his gaze unflinchingly and gave nothing away with his expression.

"It's not about coping. I've turned down pain meds before. Phil knows that and so do you."

Dan just gaped at Barton for a moment. Yeah, Barton could work through pain unlike most people he knew – and he did tend to turn down pain meds when given the option. But there was clearly something else going on. Forcing the pain medications on Barton was something he could technically do, but it would wreck the trust he had just been starting to establish with the archer before this mission. He didn't want to start from scratch again.

Abruptly, Dan turned and moved toward the door. Time to play his trump card – there was one thing that Barton seemed to want to avoid right now even more than meds.

"Fine. I'm getting Phil. Maybe he can talk some sense into you."

He made it all the way there, even got his hand on the door handle before Barton spoke.

"Fine."

Dan paused, but didn't turn and waited for Barton to continue.

"I'll take the damn meds."

Dan couldn't help it. His shoulders slumped with relief. He took a second to compose himself before he turned around, though.

"The morphine I had Phil give you work well enough, or do you want something stronger?"

Barton's gaze was fixed on some spot on the ceiling and stayed there even as he responded.

"Morphine's fine."

This time, Dan didn't even hesitate.

"Dammitall, Barton, I mean it. You need sleep. Is the morphine going to cut it or not?"

Barton looked at him now, eyebrow arched defiantly.

"Morphine's fine." He stated again, this time more firmly.

Dan didn't like the look on Baton's face, and he definitely figured the kid was lying. But he didn't want to screw around with this.

"Fine. I'll grab an anti-inflammatory while I'm at it, and no, you can't say no."

Barton's gaze shifted back to the ceiling without responding.

Dan sighed and went out the door without stopping this time. Damned kid was going to give him a migraine.

He nearly ran headlong into Todd Bryan, who was reaching for the door just as Dan pushed through it. Dan figured it took all of Todd's natural reflexes and speed to avoid dumping the tray of food he had balanced in his hands all over both of them.

Dan eyed the food on the tray.

"Wrong color Gatorade, for one. He prefers the blue. Was the cafeteria out?

"A huge class of recruits just came in and cleaned out the supply. They only had red and orange left." Todd replied distractedly as he shifted to try and see over or around Dan into the room.

Dan caught on almost immediately, and stood up a little taller to block the view of the room.

Todd's gaze focused on him and irritation rose in his eyes.

"Dan, what the hell?"

Dan snorted softly.

"As if I couldn't figure out just what the hell you came up here for. Be my guest, but watch out for the attitude. It's in full force today."

The irritation faded just as quickly as it had risen and Todd smirked.

"Wouldn't be Barton if there wasn't attitude involved."

Todd moved to step around Dan, but Dan grabbed his arm and shook his head.

"I'm serious, Todd. This isn't normal Barton. It's like he wants the whole world to just go away. I'd go get Phil, but he's had about as little sleep as Barton, and I finally managed to get him on the couch in my office."

Todd's gaze grew serious and he nodded.

Dan couldn't keep the look of frustration off his face.

"Maybe you can snap him out of his funk. But I doubt it."

Todd sighed as if doubted it too.

Dan gestured down the hall.

"I'll be back in a few with his pain meds."

Todd nodded again and quietly made his way into Barton's room. Dan sighed, silently wished him luck, and headed away from the room.

* * *

Barton didn't even glance his way as Todd stepped into the room. He kept his gaze, instead, fixed on some spot on the ceiling.

Todd braced himself and forced some enthusiasm into his voice.

"Look who's back from the dead."

He moved closer and slid the tray onto the bedside table.

"Was never dead." Barton muttered as he gave the food a disinterested glance.

"Maybe not in the most literal sense of the word, no. But that doesn't make your survival any less of a relief to those of us who believed it to be true."

Todd leaned his hip against the foot the bed and looked Barton over.

"Damn, kid, you look like shit. Definitely used up one of your nine lives this time."

Barton's eyebrow arched impatiently.

Todd wasn't unfamiliar with Barton's lack of verbal communication, so he let the sharp expression go without comment.

"Anyway, just wanted to check in, making sure the rumors were true."

Barton's expression morphed sarcastically as if to ask 'are you satisfied?'

"You know what, Johnny Rain Cloud, some of us didn't  _know_  that your whole 'playing dead' thing was a load of shit. So forgive me for actually giving a fucking damn."

Barton's gaze darkened and he shifted it back to the ceiling, dismissing Todd with all the subtly of a sign that read 'get the fuck out.' Todd almost snapped and let the kid have it right then and there. But then something caught his eye.

It was so faint he almost didn't see it, but it was there.

A tremor.

It was making Barton's left hand – which was relaxed on the blanket next to his thigh – shake.

He'd seen that kind of reaction before, in agents that had been through hell and hadn't quite made it back yet – not in their own head at least.

What the hell had happened?

"Jesus, Barton…" before he had a chance to say anything else, to tell the kid he hadn't  _known_ …hadn't realized how bad it had been, the door opened and Dan marched back in.

"Sleep time." He didn't give Barton a chance to object before smoothly injecting something into his IV port.

Todd swallowed and gave the archer one last long look, but Barton's gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling.

"For what it's worth, Barton…it's damn good to see you in one piece." There was no noticeable reaction to his words, but he hadn't been expecting one. "Heal up, kid."

With that, Todd followed Dan out of the room, leaving Barton exactly how he seemed to want to be at the moment…alone.

* * *

Dan headed back down the hallway towards Barton's room. He really hoped that in the time since they'd left him, the kid was finally sleeping. He leaned silently through the open doorway and looked him over.

Barton's breathing was even, his head tilted slightly away from the door. He was asleep,  _finally_.

The untouched food still sitting on the bedside table was cause for concern, but it was something that could be dealt with later. For now, sleep was the best thing for him.

As it also was for Phil. He  _really_  hoped his friend had made good use of his time in Dan's office. With that thought in mind, he headed across the hall to check on him.

Dan opened his door quietly, hoping not to disturb Phil. But it was for nothing, because almost immediately the agent flinched and looked to the door. Seeing Dan, he pushed himself up to sitting.

"Is Clint –"

Dan rolled his eyes and cut him off.

"Oh, for God's sake, settle down. He's asleep. I can see him from RIGHT HERE." Dan snorted. "Do I need to get you a sedative next? Because if you were awake that quick, you definitely weren't sleeping."

A flash of defiance lit Phil's expression.

"I was sleeping." He defended. "Just not..." he cleared his throat and shifted his gaze away, " _deeply_."

"Yeah, and Barton didn't need his pain medication, either." Dan looked seriously at Phil for a long moment, noting the circles under his eyes and the exhaustion on his face. "Seriously, Phil, do I need get you a sedative?"

The defiance fled and Phil sagged back against the couch cushions with a sigh.

"No, I can sleep...I guess I just needed to hear from someone else that he's gonna be okay first."

"I'm not sure I'd go that far, but he's stitched up, asleep and not dying." Dan came the rest of the way into the room, and shot a look at Phil. "So, I'll 'take that as a win.'"

He then sunk into one his office chair and leaned back, heaving out a sigh.

"What the hell happened out there, Phil? He had bruises  _on top_ of bruises, fucking electrical burns, a broken collar bone that had been that way for way too long – oh, and his feet looked like he'd walked across glass. And don't even get me started on his state of mind…his head was anywhere but here, and trust me, it wasn't just the concussion –  _which,_ by the way, is pretty damned bad. Made me a little surprised he's as coherent as he is."

Phil scrubbed a hand over his eyes and blew out a breath.

"It's definitely not just the concussion." Phil agreed, but he didn't expound further, just turned his gaze onto the closed office door, but not seeming to really focus on it.

Dan sighed. First Barton, now Phil. The attitude was catching.

"I've got that single malt in the desk if it'll loosen your tongue."

That drew Phil's gaze away from the door and over to Dan.

"I won't say no to a drink. As for what happened to cause those injuries, you know about as much as I do at this point. The explosion, followed by over half a day of being held captive. Who the hell knows what he went through? The state of mind, on the other hand, that has more to do with something that can't be as easily fixed."

Dan opened the drawer, and started digging under a pile of papers. When he found the bottle, he pulled it out - and then swore.

"Goddamitall. I'm going to have to find a new hiding place." He shook his head and wondered who'd stole a shot or three, then reached into the drawer again and pulled out a plastic cup.

He poured a generous amount in Phil's cup, and then handed it over.

"Spill. And I don't mean the drink."

Phil took a long haul from the cup and let his head drop back against the cushions, remaining silent for a long moment before speaking.

"We lost an asset in the field. Clint is taking it personally."

Dan frowned.

"One of ours? I didn't hear anything about that."

Phil slowly shook his head.

"Not one of ours...not technically."

Dan glowered.

"Make sense, Phil. Now."

"I wish I could." Phil sighed and tipped some more of the drink into his mouth. "But I didn't even know about this 'asset' until I was trying to rescue him." Phil shook his head as if he still couldn't quite figure something out.

"Wait a minute, you've lost me. All I know is that Barton was deep undercover someplace, and that cover got blown enough for someone to try to kill him. Asset? What asset?"

Phil pulled his head forward off the cushion and rubbed his face again.

"You aren't cleared for details beyond the scope of his treatment, but considering I'm a little light on the details myself, I can tell you this...while undercover Clint cultivated this asset. As Clint tells it, this guy is the only reason he was able to escape."

Dan leaned back in his chair.

"Aw, FUCK. And he died?" A horrible thought struck him. "While getting Barton out?"

Phil nodded.

"Something like that."

"Well, that certainly explains the shitty attitude. I won't push for details, but would this explain why Barton refused pain medication when even  _he_  would usually take them at this point? He's trying to punish himself?"

"Like I said, he's taking it personally and Clint's never been good at letting himself off the hook." Phil drained the rest of his drink and held the cup back out to Dan, silently asking for a refill.

Dan looked at the cup, looked at the bottle, then sighed and poured another shot for Phil.

"There, and the state you're in, that should knock you on your ass."

Dan put the cap back on the bottle, and then dropped it back in the drawer. After a moment, he pulled out his keychain and threw the lock on it as well.

"Did you get him to take the pain meds?" Phil asked as he sipped the drink.

Dan sighed.

"It was a fucking battle, and I had to hit below the belt to win it, but yeah, he took them."

Phil arched a curious eyebrow.

"Below the belt?"

"Told him I'd come and get you to talk some sense into him. He was telling me he 'didn't need it.'" Dan air quoted the last three words, and then sighed. "I figured with the way he was acting earlier, he might not want to see you  _more_. Any idea what that's about?"

Phil shook his head. "He's hiding something from me." He sighed. "I've never seen him like this...and believe me, I've seen him pretty bad. There's something he doesn't want me to know."

Dan nodded.

"Well," Dan paused, then gestured at the glass. "Drink that, and I'll pay you a compliment."

Phil twitched an eyebrow as if to say 'what the hell' and downed the entire contents of the glass.

"Good. Now, listen to me." Dan leaned back, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but Barton used to not tell you a lot of shit back in the beginning. You were in here complaining about his stubborn ass on more than one occasion. But no matter how frustrated you got, you never gave up on him…and you know what happened?"

Phil didn't answer, just waited instead.

"He started to trust you and then everything changed." Dan pointed a finger at Phil. "This may be the worst you've seen him, and yeah, he  _is_  in pretty damned bad shape, but that trust is still there. And if anyone is going to get him worked back around to the right side of this, it'll be you. You think anybody else here can say that?"

Phil sighed, glancing back at the door again, as if he could see Clint if he looked hard enough.

"I'm not even sure where to start. Talking to him now is like being back at square one...hell, BEFORE square one." Phil looked back at Dan. "You didn't know him in the beginning, Dan, the  _very_  beginning. It was like running uphill, and ninety percent of the time the kid was ready to walk away and never look back. And  _this_ ," Phil pointed at the door, "this is worse than that was."

Dan thought about it for a moment, weighing his words carefully.

"It may be worse, but there's one thing that's changed."

Phil raised an eyebrow curiously and waited.

"He's not going to walk out the door. Not on  _you_. He proved that by coming back here at all."

The words, and their implication, brought visible emotion into Phil's expression before he looked away and took a breath to collect himself.

"You never gave up on him in the beginning, don't give up on him now. Something tells me he needs you more now than he ever has."

Phil looked back at him, a bit of fire in his gaze again.

"I'd never give up on him. But I can't do this  _without_  him. He has to be willing to fight for  _himself_...and right now, it's like he's got no fight left."

"Think about what you just said and who you said it about." Dan stated firmly. "What did you always tell me about him when you first brought him in? When you were frustrated beyond belief because you couldn't get through to him? What did you tell me?"

Phil drew back slightly and his expression grew thoughtful.

"That he was a survivor." He stated quietly, thoughtfully. Then his gaze refocused and new resolve started building. "He was stubborn and didn't know how to quit, even when he should."

Dan nodded.

"You would tell me that that kid is a  _fighter,_  deep in his bones – that he didn't know how to do anything else even when it wasn't in his best interest. You think that's changed?"

Phil's gaze started gaining some more fire, and fresh determination.

Dan nodded again.

"Exactly. It hasn't. That fight's still there, Phil. You just have to remind him."

Phil nodded, gaze growing reflective as he no doubt tried to come up with some sort of plan. Dan watched him sit on the couch and make no move to lay back down as he'd promised before this conversation started.

"Uh, Phil?"

He started and glanced Dan's way expectantly.

"You can't do anything right now. He's asleep, and you should be too."

Phil sighed.

"Right."

"And in a minute, that scotch is gonna kick in. So why don't you stretch out and give yourself a break?"

After brief hesitation, Phil nodded.

"Just wake me up when he wakes up."

Dan nodded, and kicked his feet back up on his desk.

"Which hopefully won't be for a good long while. Because, my friend, you look like shit."

Phil huffed a sarcastic chuckle and stretched out on the couch, draping an arm over his eyes with a sigh.

After he was sure Phil would stay settled, Dan leaned back and relaxed. Everyone was in the right place at the moment. It would do.

* * *

_Clint slid around the corner, eyes scanning the dark corridor ahead of him. Slowly, keeping his steps silent, he moved down the hallway, gripping the hilt of his knife – Boomer's knife – tightly in his hand._

_Boomer was here – somewhere._

_He had to be._

_Clint just had to find him. He had to find him before it was too late._

_Voices echoed around him, causing him to stop cold and look behind him._

_But there was no one there. He swung back around, searching the darkness around him, but he couldn't see anyone. The voices got louder, clearer._

_He knew those voices._

_Ruiz and Cohen._

_But there was another voice – it was weaker, quieter._

_Boomer._

_The realization spurred him to move. He started down the hall again, but no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find a door. The voices were there though, getting louder._

_He was close. He had to be close._

_He had to find him. He had to find Boomer before it was too late._

_He felt along the black walls, searching for a break, for something that would indicate the door that would be hiding Boomer behind it._

_Where was it? He had to find it._

_He was so focused on his task, so determined not to fail, that he didn't hear someone coming up behind him. He sensed the other presence just before a hand landed heavily on his shoulder._

_He spun, coming face to face with Cohen._

" _Agent Barton."_

_Clint tried to back away, but hit the wall._

" _Agent_ Barton."

Light swirled around him and Clint slammed his eyes closed.

_Cohen moved at him, hand landing on his shoulder again._

Clint's eyes snapped open at the sudden pressure on his shoulder and his hand shifted instinctively, sliding under the blankets and finding the hilt of the knife he had hidden under his thigh.

He tore his focus away from the blinding light around him to the presence looming over him.

 _Cohen_.

Clint's body reacted immediately, years' worth of instincts leading his actions. He swung out with the knife, causing Cohen to stumble back with a startled shout. Then he used his elbow to push himself up, huffing irritably at the uselessness of his broken collarbone. He stumbled to his feet, brushing off whatever was stinging his arm and clawing at whatever was holding his right arm hostage until he was free of it.

Then he turned his attention back to Cohen, stalking forward and backing him up against the door.

"Where is he?" Clint demanded, brandishing the knife threateningly and reaching with his newly freed right hand to catch the man around the throat.

Cohen shook his head and didn't answer.

"Where's Boomer?!" Clint growled, stepping forward and pressing the knife blade lightly against his throat.

Cohen's eyes went wide and out of nowhere he screamed.

"Help me! Somebody help me!"

"Shut up!" Clint snapped, using the hand he had around Cohen's throat to pull him away from the door. He backed up even as he forced Cohen to turn, pulling the man's back against his chest and sliding the knife in under his chin again.

"Please." Cohen begged quietly and Clint tightened the hand he had around his throat.

"I told you to shut up!" Clint hissed. "How many men do you have out there? Huh? How many?"

Cohen just stuttered over syllables and didn't answer.

"Where's Boomer?" Clint demanded.

Cohen shook his head just as the door burst open and two men stepped through it.

"Let her go, Barton."

Clint frowned and backed up further, pulling Cohen with him.

"Stay back or I'll kill him."

"Barton…"

"Back up!" Clint snapped.

A third man stepped into the room, immediately backed out, shouted something Clint didn't catch, and then he was back in the room again. He stepped forward, ahead of the other two, a hand outstretched with a gun pointed in Clint's direction.

"Barton, calm down."

Clint glared at the new man over Cohen's shoulder.

"Where's Boomer?"

"He's not here, Clint." A fourth man came into the room, approaching slowly.

_Ruiz._

"Stay back." Clint snarled. "You're next on my list."

Ruiz held up both his hands, proudly showcasing the taser in one of them.

"Where are you, Clint?"

Clint frowned. That was an ass-backwards question for a situation like this.

"Clint, I need you to focus. Tell me where you are. Describe it."

"You know where we are, it's  _your_  goddamned compound." Clint argued. "Stop moving."

Ruiz stopped his slow, subtle approach immediately.

"Clint, are you in the Ares compound?"

Clint frowned again. What was with the stupid questions?

"Where's Boomer, Ruiz?" Clint tried to bring the proper focus back to the conversation. "I know he's here."

"Clint, focus…I'm not Ruiz. You're not in Cairo anymore."

The entire room blurred and refocused just as quickly, but the scene was different. The walls were white, not black. It wasn't Ruiz's men in the room and it wasn't Ruiz. There were no guns, no tasers. Most startling, it wasn't Cohen he had trapped.

Just as abruptly, the scene shifted back.

_What the hell…_

Clint frowned, instinctively tightening his hold on Cohen's neck.

Something wasn't right…maybe they'd drugged him.

"Where's Boomer?" He asked again, forcing his tone to be firm.

"I'm not Ruiz, Clint.  _Think_ , focus…Ruiz didn't know your name, nobody in Ares did."

Clint felt his breathing start to speed up. He was Hawkeye,  _just_ Hawkeye, to Ruiz. He wasn't Clint. Only one person called him Clint.

Something wasn't right.

* * *

Phil kept his hands spread non-threateningly in front of him, watching as the confusion grew in Clint's eyes.

"You know that something is off, I can see it in your eyes. Trust that instinct, Clint."

The hand Clint had wrapped around the nurse's throat loosened fractionally and she reacted, throwing an elbow back into Clint's ribs and stomping hard on his foot. Clint flinched, backing away from the assault instinctively.

The combination of him backing up and the nurse trying to break free was a bad one and the knife jerked up, slicing sharply across the bottom of her jaw bone. She shrieked in pain and Clint tensed. But something about her scream must have broken through whatever delusion he was trapped in because he let her pull away without protest.

"Come to me, Steph." Dan ordered sharply, beckoning the nurse closer.

She obeyed immediately, keeping one hand pressed against the bleeding cut on her jaw. Dan caught her and handed her off to one of the other nurses, a tall, thin man.

"Matt, get her out of here and into a treatment room. Then call Dr. Thomas and get him to come in early."

Satisfied that the nurse, Steph, was taken care of, Phil returned his complete focus to Clint, who was alternating between watching them all like a predator about to strike and looking horribly, painfully confused.

He was coming back, Phil just needed to guide him.

"Hey, Clint, stay focused on me." Phil shifted a step closer, making sure to keep an eye on the knife Clint still had poised defensively in front of him. Clint's eyes twitched over to focus on his approach and the knife shifted to guard the space between them.

Dan said something in low tones to another staff member, who turned and went down the hall quietly.

Phil moved another step closer, shifting his eyes off the knife to focus solely on Clint's clouded gaze.

"You know me." Phil insisted carefully, but firmly. "You know where you are. Just breathe, focus and you'll remember. I'm not Ruiz and you're not in Cairo." He assured again.

Clint matched his advance with a step backwards, which brought him to the corner of the room. That realization seemed to startle him and caused his grip on the knife hilt to turn white. Phil held up his hands a little higher.

"Hey, hey…breathe." He ordered. "Focus, Clint. Who am I?" he drifted closer.

The confusion clouded with pain in Clint's eyes was hard to see. The kid was honestly lost right now. Even so, the wheels were turning. He was trying to figure it out. He stared hard at Phil for several long moments, breathing heavily and keeping the knife between them.

"Who am I?" Phil asked again, hoping that if he got Clint to think about that hard enough, he would put the pieces back together. He nearly sighed in relief when the knife dropped a little and some of the defensiveness faded from Clint's posture.

"Phil..." he sounded so confused, like he didn't know why or how Phil was there. He blinked and shook his head as if to clear it, only to wince and bring his free hand – still holding the knife – up to his temple.

"That's right." Phil agreed. "Now where are you?" He had to keep him thinking, keep those wheels turning.

Clint's eyes scanned the room quickly, settling for a moment on Dan before moving on. Finally, he focused back on Phil and some of the cobwebs cleared.

"The infirmary." Clint looked down at the knife in his hand and frowned in confusion.

"Good." Phil kept moving closer, almost close enough to get a hand on the knife if he needed to. "You're safe here – with me – you know that. You don't need the knife, right?"

Clint shook his head slightly and held it out slightly as if offering it to Phil. Then, almost abruptly, he blinked heavily and wavered, swaying dangerously.

He was going down.

Phil knew he had to move quickly before that knife ended up stabbing Clint or himself. He grabbed it with one hand just as Clint's legs started to give way. He made sure the knife was nowhere it could accidentally stab anyone and tried to get his other hand on the bicep of Clint's free arm to keep him from hitting the floor too hard.

"Dan." Phil held the knife out for the doctor to take even as he shifted, pulling Clint towards him with his other hand. He ended up on the floor with Clint collapsed against his chest.

Dan took the knife, and slid it quietly across the floor, out of everyone's reach.

"Barton, you still with us?" the doctor asked carefully as he slowly moved closer.

Clint, forehead now pressed against Phil's shoulder, just groaned lowly.

"He's still awake." Phil offered as he bodily maneuvered Clint so it would be easier to support his weight. At least he  _had_  been awake when he was going down. The way he'd blindly reached out for Phil as he collapsed told him as much.

"Probably what's left of the adrenaline." Dan moved carefully forward, talking as he went. "Hey, just need to check a few things out, Barton. Your vitals, that sort of thing."

Phil had to hand it to Dan, he'd definitely learned a lot about how to handle Clint. Approach slowly, tell him what you're doing…all necessary, especially when he was injured. He wished this was the time to tell Dan as much, but it wasn't. So he settled for sending him a grateful look.

When Clint didn't respond right away to Dan's words, Phil shifted so he could get a glimpse of his face. Whatever adrenaline had been left had apparently run its course. Clint's eyes were closed and his expression lax.

"He's out."

As much of a relief as that was, unconscious was never a state he liked seeing Clint in.

Dan nodded.

"Good. Phil, I need you to leave him to me. There's a protocol we've got to follow here." Dan's voice was gentle, but firm. "I need to re-run the tests we did earlier, and find out if there's any physical going on. I also need to get psych involved."

Phil's grip tightened around Clint and he frowned.

"I'm not leaving." He'd already made that mistake once. Maybe if he'd been in here when Clint woke up this whole thing could have been avoided. He wasn't leaving him again.

"I'm not asking you to leave. In fact, I need you here." Dan kept his voice pitched low, almost soothing. "I just need you to go to the door. I've got a nurse coming back with a stretcher, some meds and ..." Dan paused, then plowed forward. "Restraints."

Phil balked at the mention of restraints.

"Him waking up in restraints won't do anything but make it worse."

Dan sighed.

"I know, but unless you can suggest another way to keep him from going on the offensive like that again, I'm stuck." Dan took a deep breath. "He won't have a knife again, but I've seen everything from plastic used as a shiv to IV tubing used as a garrote."

Phil blew out a frustrated breath. Dan was right. Clint didn't need a weapon to be deadly, but there were too many things any resourceful agent could use in the room – and Clint was more resourceful than most.

"Fine, but only temporarily."

They both looked to the door when a nurse pushed through the small crowd of gathered infirmary staff.

"Dr. Wilson, I've got the stretcher."

"You got the medication I asked for?"

She nodded and pulled a few syringes out of her pocket, holding them out to him.

"Which one's the Haldol?"

She picked a specific syringe out and held it out.

"No, keep that one for now." Dan looked at Phil. "It's a psychiatric medication, used to bring people back to reality. I'm not going to use it unless we have to. I am going to give him a sedative, though. His best interests – and ours."

"With a concussion?" Phil eyed the syringes worriedly. "You sure?" He'd always been told sedation with a concussion was risky – and he didn't like the idea of taking risks with Clint right now.

Dan seemingly couldn't help the eye roll.

"Yes, I'm sure. We're going right down to CT to do another scan, and we're going to be monitoring him anyhow."

Phil nodded – knowing he had to trust Dan's decisions in this situation – and didn't object again as Dan knelt down next to them.

Dan tapped the syringe lightly, then quickly injected the medication.

"All right, stretcher first, then we're going to reattach the IVs and get everything else back in order, folks." Dan looked at Phil. "Stick close, but try to stay out of the way. Ask questions, otherwise we probably won't explain everything." He then turned back to the nurse. "Serene, go call psych, tell them we need someone for a critical stress debrief." He turned back to Phil. "Anyone you or Barton prefer?"

The thought of calling in psych made the situation seem even more real. Clint had been completely out of touch, broken from reality. He'd found his way back, but it was still a terrifying realization.

"Phil." Dan prodded.

"Uh...Bridgett Taylor, she usually handles his post-mission consults so he knows her."

"Serene, go tell Dr. Taylor I need her to call me. I'll explain the situation to her as soon as we get Barton sorted out."

Serene nodded and hurried out of the room.

Phil looked up as the stretcher suddenly wheeled up next to them. Without being told, he hooked an arm under Clint's legs. He made sure his other was secure around his back, and then stood, lifting Clint with him. Phil carefully laid him out on the stretcher and after a moment of hesitation forced himself to back away.

He had to trust Dan right now. If this was something physical, he couldn't fix it. Dan could.

He forced himself to take another step back.

He felt Dan's gaze on him for a long moment before the doctor spoke.

"You okay?"

Phil nodded jerkily. He wasn't the one unconscious on the stretcher with a pulled out IV and too many broken bones.

"The hits just keep coming, you know?"

Dan's gaze stayed on him, then he took Phil's arm and pulled him to a chair.

"Sit down."

Phil sat without protest, but then pushed Dan's hands away.

"I'll be fine. Just take care of him."

Dan shook his head.

"Jamie, get that IV restarted and those restraints on. Keep them as loose as you can." Dan then looked back at Phil. " _He_  is being taken care of. Look at me."

It took a moment, but Phil forced himself to pull his eyes away from Clint and focus on Dan instead.

"I should've seen this coming, Phil. I've seen enough of this shit – and lived through enough myself. I'm sorry I didn't check for weapons."

Phil shook his head. This wasn't Dan's fault. None of them had seen this coming and somebody should have. Clint was always so strong, always seemed to bounce back. They'd all taken that for granted and it bit them in the ass.

"I've seen my share too, Dan. And I know him a hell of a lot better than you do. If anybody should have seen this coming, it should have been me." Phil shook his head again, this time in self-recrimination. "He's never even tried to get a weapon in here. I didn't think to look for it either."

Dan nodded.

"I'll add it to my list of all things Barton to keep an eye out for, then. It's three pages and running."

Phil forced a weak smirk.

"Only three pages?"

Dan didn't even blink.

"Single-spaced, small type."

Phil's smirk grew into a slight smile and he blew out a breath, rubbing his hand across his eyes.

"Now what?"

"Now we find out what caused this. I've got a few suspicions, but I want to rule out a brain bleed or anything else new with the CT." Dan nodded toward Jamie. "We run a new set of everything, and get him on monitors so we don't miss anything that might come up physically. Wake him up in two hours for a concussion check." He looked back at Phil. "I think you'll be doing that."

Phil nodded – that was probably the safest option – then he sat up a little straighter as he remembered something.

"He felt hot, when I caught him, he was hot."

Dan nodded, but put a hand back to Phil's chest.

"We're going to check everything. Like I said. Phil, this kind of reaction isn't unheard of. You know that."

Phil nodded again and sagged back in the chair.

"Yeah...yeah, I know."

Dan nodded.

"Take a deep breath, then. Barton's not the first to go through this, and he won't be the last. Besides, when's the last time the kid ever did anything the easy way?"

Phil huffed a slight laugh. 'Easy' was practically a four-letter word to Clint – at least it always seemed that way.

"OK. Let's go then. We'll work it out, Phil. It'll just take a little longer than normal."

Phil nodded and stood, following behind as Dan and the nurse pushed the stretcher towards the door. He blew out a deep breath and glanced back at the room one last time – at the IV needle hanging loosely from the tubing, the tangled pile of blankets on the floor, and the abandoned brace that had been holding Clint's broken left collarbone immobile.

This mission just kept heaping chaos on top of chaos.

Phil just hoped they were finally at the end of the whirlwind and could start rebuilding.

With a sigh, he turned away from the room and followed after Clint.

* * *

End of Chapter 11

Yikes! That was tense! Clint on his own is dangerous enough, but throw in a Clint that feels threatened and backed into a corner and you've got some serious problems.

I'm going on a long weekend vaca with my husband and son to Boston this afternoon. (Taking advantage of this move to New York :D) I WILL post the final chapter tomorrow but just bear with me if it comes a little later than usual (though my hope is to get it up EARLIER than usual lol) You WILL get it, promise.

Phil's got some major putting back together to do with Clint - the poor kid is pretty shaken up by this mission. What were you guys' thoughts on that hallucination scene? Tense right? That nurse got lucky in my opinion. :)

Comments are to me like a finely crafted weapon is to Natasha.

Until tomorrow...

* * *

_"And this guy Boomer?"_

_Phil shook his head sadly._

_"Collateral damage."_

_"Comes with the job," Nick reminded._

_Phil jerked his head towards the window – and Barton behind it._

_"Tell that to the kid who's already so damn convinced he's got too much blood on his hands."_

_Fury sighed and glanced at Barton briefly before looking back at Phil – meeting his eyes squarely._

_"Phil, we all have blood on our hands. It's something guys like us learn to live with, you know that as well as I do. My question to you now is this…can **he** learn to live with it?"_


	12. Don't  You Cry No More

_Thanks to those who commented last chapter:_ **Isi7140, immertreu**   _and_ **Hamham2931**

_Special thanks to_ **Kylen** _for her constant support as this story was written. Every time I sit down to write, she pushes me to do and be better as an author. Without her advice and support this story wouldn't have turned out how it did :)_

_Another special thanks to_ **JRBarton** _she also has been super supportive and helpful as she served as very patient second beta :)_

_The song for this story is "Carry On My Wayward Son" by Kansas! Probably my favorite song ever._

_So with nothing more to say, here is the conclusion of Cairo…_

* * *

_Most people carry that pain around inside them their whole lives, until they kill the pain by other means, or until it kills them. But you, my friends, you found another way: a way to use the pain. To burn it as fuel, for light and warmth. You have learned to break the world that has tried to break you._ _  
_ _**Lev Grossman** _

* * *

Clint returned to awareness abruptly, senses sharpening immediately. He felt another person in the room, but in the same moment, identified that person and relaxed.

"You awake?" Phil's voice was close, right next to the bed.

Instead of replying, Clint opened his eyes and let that be answer enough.

The room was just as white as he'd expected – it was one of the things he hated about the infirmary, too much white. He swallowed, frowning at the dryness of his throat and tried to remember the last time he'd been awake.

It was all unpleasantly fuzzy. He tried to reach up with his free hand to rub his eyes, but met resistance. His gaze snapped down to his wrist, glaring at the fabric restraint holding him captive. His right arm was strapped to his chest again, so he supposed it had been labeled a non-threat.

"Just a precaution." Phil assured.

Clint frowned. A precaution against  _what_? What the hell was going on?

"What happened?"

 _Jesus_ , he still sounded terrible and now instead of just feeling dry, his throat  _hurt_. Then there was the annoying cotton-mouth sensation that told him he hadn't spoken or had something to drink in way too long.

A straw appeared in his line of sight and his bed started rising behind him, gently easing him to a reclined position instead of flat on his back.

"Slowly." Phil instructed as he let Clint take a long drink from the water cup.

Clint narrowed his eyes in annoyance, but obeyed. Then, before Clint was ready, Phil took the cup away and sat back in the seat he'd pulled up to the side of the bed.

"What do you remember?" Phil asked carefully, eyes watching Clint closely.

An image of Boomer, lying dead on the floor in front of him, flashed across his vision and it took everything Clint had not to flinch.

"About what?" he asked, clearing his throat with a wince.

Phil's eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he sat forward in his chair.

"Do you remember waking up in the infirmary? Being confused?"

Another fractured memory flashed through his mind – a blurred, shifting scene that included Ruiz, Cohen and a handful of mercenaries…and then didn't include any of that.

He blew out a breath and dropped his head back against his pillows.

"Shit."

Phil nodded, seemingly pleased he didn't have to explain everything.

"Shit would be right." Phil agreed.

Clint pulled his head forward again and shook his head, trying to make sense of the other mixed up, blurry memories that were filtering in.

"What…uh?" Clint stuttered. "What the hell had happened?

"Your fever spiked." Phil explained. "That combined with your concussion and whatever you were dreaming about added up to you taking a nurse hostage at knife point."

Clint closed his eyes, he'd been hoping that bit of the memory had been part of the delusion.

"It was…I  _thought_  it was Cohen…I swear it was Cohen."

But the more he thought about it, the more he remembered, the only thing that had  _been_  Cohen was the way the man looked, the way his voice sounded. None of the behaviors matched.

_Shit._

"Is she okay?"

"A little shaken up, got nicked on the jaw by the blade, but she'll be fine."

Clint chewed the inside of his lip, trying to remember ever deciding to actually  _use_  the knife as anything more than a threat.

"You were convinced I was Ruiz and kept asking where Boomer was. Is that what you were dreaming about? Looking for Boomer?"

Another memory filtered through his head, but this time it wasn't from the dream or the confused situation that followed, it was the real memory…and the devastating result of that original search.

" _I's over f'r me, H'wk. N't f'r you."_

" _No, it's not over. I'm not leaving you here." Clint argued._

_Boomer's pale lips stretched into a weak smile._

" _Knew it…Knew you w're diff'r'nt."_

Clint looked away, fixing his gaze on the wall. He heard Phil sigh, but he didn't push. He changed the subject instead.

"Dr. Taylor is here."

Clint whipped his head around to glare at Phil then at the closed door behind him.

"Don't give me that look, you would have had to talk to her anyway, you know that. What happened last night just sped up the process."

Clint frowned, momentarily distracted.

"Last night?" If the clock on the wall was right, it was well past noon. He had nothing but vague, blurred memories of being woken up and asked the standard concussion questions, but other than that, nothing. There was nNo way he'd slept that long on his own.

"Had to sedate you, Clint, until we were sure of what was going on. It's protocol for a situation like this, just like a psych consult is."

Clint shook his head in frustration, this just kept getting better and better. No wonder his brain felt like it was moving through sludge – he hated goddamned sedatives.

A slight knock came at the door but it didn't open. It seemed to be signal of some sort though, because Phil sat up straighter and then stood.

"Look, kid, I know talking to psych is one of those things you consider on par with torture, but you held a nurse at knife point…there's nothing you or I can do to put this off right now."

Clint felt his shoulders sag. Then there was that. He tried to reach up to rub his eyes again only to be met with the same resistance as before. His sudden flare of annoyance must have shown on his face because Phil didn't move away from the bed.

"Do you want me to stay?"

No…and yes.

He didn't want Phil around to be able to too closely analyze Clint's reactions to whatever Taylor said. But at the same time, Phil's presence was comforting and calming.

Except…he didn't want to be comforted. He didn't want Phil trying to make him feel better.

And he didn't want Phil seeing more than Clint was ready for him to see.

So he shook his head negatively. Phil hesitated, but didn't try to change his mind.

"I'll be right outside." Phil assured.

He meant it as a comfort, but all it inspired was dread. Shrinks tended to draw conclusions, usually out loud and without asking permission. He wasn't sure he wanted Phil hearing whatever conclusions Taylor started drawing. It was better than him being  _right_  there, though, so he would take it.

Phil hesitated at his bedside a few moments longer, probably waiting for some sort of reaction from Clint. But Clint just fixed his gaze on the wall and didn't look at him.

Finally Phil moved away, to the door.

And some deep part of him that he refused to acknowledge suddenly wished he'd asked Phil to stay.

* * *

Dr. Bridgett Taylor waited outside the infirmary door until Agent Coulson stepped through.

"He's ready." Coulson stated, moving aside to allow her access to the door. But as she met his eyes, his gaze didn't look nearly as inviting.

Bridgett lightly rested her hand on his forearm and squeezed gently.

"I'll be careful with him." She promised quietly. She waited for his acknowledging nod before removing her hand and moving past him, pushing the door open.

She'd met with Clint Barton a handful of times since he'd come to SHIELD. And their first consultation had been one she would never forget. He'd just gotten back from a mission in North Korea, one that hadn't gone  _quite_  as planned, but had turned out the way it was supposed to.

He hadn't said a word the entire session – not one word – and for her, that had been a first. She'd seen her share of stubborn patients, but Clint Barton was in a class all of his own. She'd never met someone so  _good_  at being unreadable. Everyone, eventually, had a tell. But not Barton. He fit the description of 'stone cold' like no one she'd ever met. After their first meeting, she'd been stumped.

Then had come the Andes, and he had been just as silent and stoic even though he'd been in the midst of recovering from what she could only describe as a horrific ordeal.

And she'd continued to be stumped.

She'd generically suggested he take some time to himself to process what he'd been through. Perhaps visit the city and get away from SHIELD for a while during his recovery. She'd advised him to find something to care about, to focus on.

Then she'd happened to see him meet up with Phil Coulson in the hallway, who had come to pick him up from the session, and her entire perception changed. When he'd caught sight of Phil, something in his entire posture shifted as he walked to meet his handler. Gone was the predator's stalk and in its place was something bordering on relaxed and even friendly. They'd exchanged a few words and Barton had happened to glance back at her office. She'd practically dove out of sight, but not before catching the open, almost humorous, expression on his face.

That was when she'd learned that 'stone cold' wasn't who Clint Barton  _was_ , not at his core. It was an armor he wore as a defense mechanism and Phil Coulson was  _vital_  to bringing that armor down.

Her whole approach had changed after that. And in every session they'd had since – and it was required after  _every_  assignment – she'd made a little progress. Last time, he'd even given her two full sentences, at  _one_  time no less. But she was determined to be patient. She was convinced that if she was, if she could just continue to be open and careful with him, he'd eventually open up in return.

But as she moved farther into the infirmary room and took in Barton's expression and countenance, she realized that today was not going to be one that yielded progress.

Regression. That was what she was looking at.

Barton was as closed down and 'stone cold' as he'd been in that very first session, maybe even more so. If she hoped to make any progress, she was going to have to tread very, very carefully.

"Hey there." She greeted warmly, sliding into the chair next to his bed and flipping open her notebook to a clear page. She dropped the notebook onto her lap, though, and didn't poise her pen to write. "It's been a while since we've seen each other. How're you feeling?"

He didn't show any visible reaction to her question, just kept his gaze pinned on the wall across from him. Not to be deterred so easily, Bridgett pulled the file she'd been given last night out from under her notebook and flipped it open. In it was a compilation of the original mission file, Barton's reports throughout the mission, Coulson's preliminary report, and Dr. Wilson's medical report. She didn't need to read it – she'd read it all last night – but it gave her something else to focus on. Barton never seemed to like being watched too closely.

"I have your mission file as well as yours, Coulson's and Dr. Wilson's reports here and I've gotta say, your continued ability to work through painful injuries is impressive." She looked up from the file. "Let's talk about those injuries. Do you wanna tell me how they happened?"

Giving him the option instead of making it a command kept him from feeling cornered, and in the past it had worked to help lower his defenses, if only slightly. Today, though, he just continued to stare at the wall.

"That's okay, Barton, you don't have to talk yet." She assured calmly. "I think I can put some of it together on my own anyway." She glanced at the file then back at his face. "It looks like you've been fighting. Old and new abrasions on your hands, old and new bruises on your torso and back. It's those old injuries, the ones Dr. Wilson estimates might be as old as a ten days or more, that got me curious." She gave him a moment to react, but he didn't, so she went on. "You reported that the organization you were working undercover in held nightly fights in something called 'The Ring'– very 'Fight Club' if you ask me." The movie reference didn't even get a glance. "You reported that you fought every now and then, no doubt to help keep your cover. But there sure are a lot of old bruises for it to have been just 'every now and then', aren't there."

She didn't phrase it as a question on purpose and she kept her tone calm and non-judgmental. Even so, Barton didn't even twitch, didn't shift his gaze from the wall.

"I'm betting that this assignment probably hit pretty close to home. And if it were me, I'd probably have been looking for some way to cope with that. Am I on the right track?"

He swallowed, but she wasn't sure if it was in response to her assessment or just a physical need so she didn't over analyze it.

"Then we've got the more recent injuries. Heavy, intense, localized bruising; your missing molar; and then those electrical burns." She blew out a low breath and tore her eyes away from the pictures in the file. "Those are textbook interrogation techniques. After what you went through last year, this probably felt pretty familiar in a not-so-good way."

Still nothing – Barton never had cared much for empathy.

"But you've always been a 'tough as shit' kind of guy. I'm betting the questioning barely fazed you. Though not for their lack of trying. What did they use?" she asked carefully. "A cattle prod? Stun gun?"

"A taser." The correction was quiet and he still didn't look at her. She wasn't even completely convinced he'd actually said anything, until he spoke again. "With the cartridge removed."

She didn't know what difference having or not having a cartridge meant when it came to a taser, but if it had been used as an interrogation tool, it wouldn't have been pleasant.

"I see." She didn't have to fabricate the emotional empathy in her tone.

It was so much easier to remain distant with her other patients, but good God…Clint Barton was  _nineteen_. He was practically a baby compared to some of the other agents she met with. It made it harder to remain objective sometimes.

She needed to keep moving before she thought too long about it.

"But then there are injuries I can't place. The knife wounds on your hand and your back…those aren't from an interrogation. The dog bite you said came from a guard dog, so I'm betting that happened during your escape…but that still doesn't explain the knife wounds…"

She trailed off and watched him for a moment, wondering if he'd speak again. He didn't.

She knew she was missing something, some piece to the puzzle of what had happened to him in Cairo, but as was usual with this particular patient, he wasn't talking.

"You know, I'll say it again. It's impressive. I don't know if you even realize the sheer amount of mental and physical strength it takes to go through something this brutal and still keeping moving forward with your mission."

Something in his expression twitched and she didn't have to guess to know what it meant. She'd learned early on that Clint Barton had no concept of his own inner strength or worth, but his lack of self-esteem was an entirely different beast. And it was one she wasn't inclined to tackle today.

"About that mission. You were sent undercover to locate and eliminate a man by the name of Damon Ruiz, but he wasn't there when you arrived." When he didn't object to any of the fact so far, she went on. "At which point, you had to 'settle in' until he got back. Were you ready for this to turn into a two-week assignment?"

Barton's expression tweaked  _very_  slightly, as if to say 'of course I was, it's my job.'

"Fair enough," she allowed. "But two weeks with a bunch of mercenaries had to have been…stressful for you." He didn't give her any indication on if that was true or not, but she hadn't expected him to. "And that brings us right back to finding a way to cope, right?"

He rolled his eyes slightly, giving her a mildly patronizing glare. It made her smile. It was a slight peek at the sarcastic personality he was so famous for and that she'd started to get glimpses of over the last year since the Andes. It gave her hope that he wasn't as far gone as he seemed, or as he seemed to believe.

"Anyway," she went on, "Ruiz came back and you were on the escort team – lucky break."

He was back to staring at the wall though, and didn't react.

"Or at least it would have been if Ruiz hadn't blamed you for that car bomb. I'm guessing that's where the interrogation comes in." She didn't want him dwelling on those particular memories, so she continued quickly. "But you escaped, were able to reconnect with Agent Coulson, and you went back to the compound and killed Ruiz."

She watched his face carefully now. In the past, talking about the completion of his mission usually brought out some sort of reaction. Whether it be a purposefully blank expression or a flicker of guilt. For someone who made his living as an assassin, he never seemed quite at ease with taking someone's life.

But now, with the mention of Ruiz, there was nothing. There was no purposeful blankness and no guilt. He was just…unaffected. He didn't care.

"Barton," she started carefully, hesitating to make sure her wording was right, "you've always, in the time that you've been here, struggled, in some way, with the job you do here. I can't help but notice you aren't…struggling…with having killed Ruiz."

He shifted then, turning his head and meeting her gaze for the first time since their one-sided conversation had started. Then he stated, very simply, and in a tone that she was smart enough to be slightly terrified by…

"He had it coming."

She held his gaze without flinching until he returned it to the wall, only then did she allow herself a thick swallow and a moment to take a deep breath. She didn't care that Clint Barton had in no way ever made any sort of threatening move towards her – a tone like that, coming out of a kid his age, with a look  _that_  dark in his eyes…it was enough to make her heart pound and her adrenaline spike.

"I would argue that everyone SHIELD sends you for 'had it coming.'"

Barton just shook his head, telling her without words that this was different.

"Is it because of what he did to you?"

But even as she said it, she knew that wasn't right. Barton was a lot of things, but vengeful wasn't one of them. His slight headshake and mildly annoyed sigh just confirmed her instinct.

So, Bridgett looked back at the file, scanning quickly over Coulson's preliminary report and then the report of the incident from last night. One name jumped out at her.

"Is it because of what he did to Boomer?" she asked quietly, carefully.

A muscle at the base of his jaw twitched. It wasn't exactly a 'tell' because the twitch came from clenching his jaw. Barton tended to clench his jaw for a lot of reasons – annoyance, anger, pain, frustration, and probably many more reasons she didn't know. All it really told her was that he was having some sort of reaction to what she'd said, not what that reaction  _was._

It was enough for her to know she was on the right track though.

"He helped you escape, saved your life." She watched his face closely, waiting to see how he would react. The muscle in his jaw twitched again, but otherwise nothing changed. "And you went back for him, didn't you? Not just for Ruiz, but for Boomer too – to do for him what he did for you."

It made such perfect sense. Even in the short time she'd known him, she'd seen that loyalty was something he took very seriously. His professional loyalty was to SHIELD, his personal loyalty was to Coulson. But beyond that, he was loyal to those who proved they were loyal to him.

Boomer had proven his loyalty by helping Barton escape – Barton would have instinctively wanted to return that loyalty. He'd gone back to try and save the man that had saved him.

And he'd failed.

Failure was not something he tended to handle well.

"And now you feel like you let him down."

There went that twitching jaw muscle again.

Bridgett took a breath and looked down at the files again. Pushing him on this wouldn't get her anywhere, but at least part of the issue had become a little clearer. She would have to leave this particular point to Coulson because even before this mess, Barton never would have let her help him work through it.

That thought brought her to a new issue.

Coulson.

"You know…normally, you'd be one of the last people I'd worry would have a situation like what happened last night. Because no matter what you go through, you practically have a built-in support system in the form of Agent Coulson. Ever since you and I met, he's been right there, waiting in the wings…but he wasn't there last night."

It was just meant as an observation, not an accusation, but Barton's shoulders tensed anyway.

"What happened wasn't his fault."

She held up a calming hand.

"I wasn't saying it was. I only meant that normally, he's there, keeping you calm and helping you cope with situations like this." She tapped the reports on her lap. "It says here that you admitted there were things you didn't tell him in your check-ins and judging by what happened last night, there are things you aren't telling him now."

Barton stared pensively at the wall and didn't respond.

"Is there a reason you're putting this new distance between you and him?"

He didn't respond to that either, but at this point she was mostly thinking out loud. There was something else going on here – something nobody knew about but Barton. And he wouldn't be sharing with her any time soon.

"Look, Barton, what you went through with Ruiz and with Boomer…you've got every right to be shaken up. But you can't just  _not_  cope. Not coping leads to situations like what happened last night – and last night, you got lucky. The only injury was a minor one, but you know better than anybody what you're capable of and it could been a lot worse."

He was chewing the inside of his bottom lip now and had the good grace to look like he felt bad about what had happened. That was something at least.

Knowing there was nothing else she could get out of this meeting, she stood and gave him one last long look.

"Whatever you're afraid of with Coulson, don't be. You don't  _have_  to be…not with him."

That was one thing she knew without a doubt. She didn't wait for a reaction that wasn't coming, instead turned and headed quietly for the door. She slid out as silently as she'd slid in and waited until the door was firmly closed behind her to turn and face the three men gathered in the hallway.

It wasn't often she had to give reports directly to Director Fury himself, but she supposed Barton had always been somewhat of a special case. The Director was standing in the middle of the hallway, hands folded behind his back and one eyebrow arched in curious anticipation.

Dan Wilson was leaning back against the wall, writing on a chart he had braced against his abdomen.

And Phil Coulson was leaning sideways against the wall right next to the viewing window, arms crossed over his chest and eyes pinned on Barton through the glass.

"I think I can safely say that another violent outburst is unlikely. Agent Barton is very good at remaining in control and now that he's been made aware of the  _need_  to be in control…I don't think there's a danger of a repeat performance."  _That,_  at least, she could say with confidence.

All three men turned their attention to her with varying degrees of relief evident in their expressions. Director Fury's relief was shown only by that arched eyebrow dropping back down to its natural position. Dan blew out a relieved breath and folded his arms around the chart he now had pressed to his chest. And Coulson just nodded, as if he'd already figured it out on his own. Which he may have, he did know Barton better than anyone else.

"And everything else?" Coulson asked quietly.

Now, Bridgett sighed.

"The root of the issue here, as I see it at least, is that he's not coping with Boomer's death and his inability to prevent it. And by not coping with what happened to Boomer, he's also not coping with coming out of his cover. It's left him in a kind of limbo – stuck in his cover, which, given his history, is more like regression than anything else. And the concussion is likely just making it worse."

"So what do we do?" Dan asked. "You say that there's not much chance of another incident, but my staff is pretty on edge. Getting them within spitting distance of his room since last night hasn't been easy."

"Well, for starters, I wouldn't leave him alone with any of them. Have someone he trusts in there whenever staff is in there – that will put  _him_  at ease…which will in turn, put  _them_  at ease." She cast a long look at Coulson as she spoke and he nodded slightly again, assuring her that he understood. Something told her Coulson wouldn't be anywhere else for the foreseeable future so none of this would really be an issue.

"And what do we do going forward?" the Director spoke up, looking first to her then to Dan. "To get him back on my roster."

"I'm not cutting him loose from here until that infection stops causing fever spikes and I can be sure everything is healing properly – a few days at least, probably closer to a week." Dan replied easily, as if that decision had already been made long ago.

"And I want to meet with him daily for the next week, maybe longer if we don't start seeing some progress." Bridgett added. Fury nodded and dismissed her with a look. She dipped her head in acknowledgment and turned away.

She blew out a sigh as she headed down the hallway. She still had a handful of sessions to get through today, but with Barton's out of the way, there was nowhere to go but up.

* * *

Nick waited until Dr. Taylor was out of sight before turning to face Phil and Dan.

"So whose bright idea was it  _not_ to check Barton for weapons?"

They both had the good grace to look both contrite and apologetic.

"I mean, gentlemen…" Fury gave them both hard looks, "It's  _Barton_."

That alone should have warranted a full pat down.

Phil rubbed his eyes wearily.

"He's never tried to sneak a weapon in before."

"And just  _when_  has he had the opportunity before? If memory serves, his longest stay in here since he got recruited was for his annual physical."

It was true. By the time he'd gotten back from the God-forsaken Orion mission in the Andes, he'd been healed enough to be released to his quarters. Since then the kid had managed to keep his nose fairly clean.

"It was an oversight." Dan sighed. "It won't happen again."

Fury continued to give them both a long stern look before nodding and letting the issue go.

"Dr. Wilson, I would advise your staff to tread lightly for now. And looking in on that nurse wouldn't be out of order."

The doctor was perceptive enough to know when he was being dismissed and just nodded, giving Phil a shoulder squeeze of encouragement before heading down the hall and back into the heart of the infirmary.

Alone with his agent now, Fury stepped up to Phil's shoulder, looking with him through the window at Barton, whose gaze hadn't left the wall.

"Did we put him out there too early?"

It was an honest question. If they'd pushed Barton into a solo assignment before he was ready, then this was on them.

But Phil shook his head firmly.

"He was ready. This going wrong, it wasn't about his ability to do the job."

"Then what the hell happened?"

"Bad timing?" Phil shrugged, turning to lean back against the wall. He let his head fall back with a sigh. "Everything went to shit and he handled it better than most would. But at the end of it all, he's still only nineteen." He pulled his head forward and met Nick's gaze. "Could  _you_  have handled this any better at nineteen? I sure as hell couldn't have."

Nick tipped his head in acknowledgement. Phil had a point.

"I mean, he did his job – he did  _exactly_  what we asked him to do."

"And this guy Boomer?"

Phil shook his head sadly.

"Collateral damage."

"Comes with the job," Nick reminded.

Phil jerked his head towards the window – and Barton behind it.

"Tell that to the kid who's already so damn convinced he's got too much blood on his hands."

Fury sighed and glanced at Barton briefly before looking back at Phil – meeting his eyes squarely.

"Phil, we all have blood on our hands. It's something guys like us learn to live with, you know that as well as I do. My question to you now is this…can  _he_  learn to live with it?"

Because if he couldn't, it would be better for everyone if they just cut him loose now.

Phil looked through the window at Barton for a long, long moment.

Then he spoke without looking away.

"He's strong enough for this job. He's strong enough to live with it. He'll get there."

Fury nodded. He'd already figured that would be Phil's response.

"Then I leave him to you." He clapped Phil on the shoulder and turned away.

If ever there were capable hands to leave Barton in, it was Phil's. He had every confidence that the older agent would get Barton's head back on straight.

He knew from experience that sometimes all that was needed was time.

And time – for an agent of Barton's caliber – was something he could give.

* * *

Clint blew out a deep sigh when his door opened  _again_  and Phil walked in.

"So…how'd it go?"

Clint arched an incredulous eyebrow.

"You were right outside the door, you heard how it went."

Phil shook his head and sat in the chair Dr. Taylor had abandoned.

"These rooms are surprisingly well insulated and Dr. Taylor is an impressively soft talker."

Clint rolled his eyes and heard Phil sigh.

"And maybe I knew you wouldn't want me to listen."

That…that was so goddamned  _Phil_. He turned his head slowly, bringing his gaze around to meet his handler's. Phil's gaze was so open and warm that he had to look away. He wasn't ready for open and warm, not yet.

Phil sighed again, but this time there was emotion bundled up in it. Emotion Clint didn't want to analyze.

"Kid, I don't know when I became the enemy here…"

Jesus. Now Clint felt like shit on one _more_ level.

"Goddamn it, Phil…that's not…" He shook his head in frustration and all but threw his head back on the pillows.

"Then tell me  _what_  it is, Clint."

"I just…" Clint blew out a breath and rolled his head away from Phil. "I need  _space_ … _time_  to deal with all this shit without feeling like I'm on a goddamned timetable."

Phil was quiet for a moment and when he spoke, his voice was still calm, still warm.

"When we met…I gave you a lot of space. And you know what you proved?" He didn't give Clint a chance to answer before he went on, "That you were your own worst enemy."

Clint refused to acknowledge the truth in those words and stayed silent.

"And do you remember what I told you after we started working all your shit out?"

Clint clenched his jaw and didn't look at him.

"That you weren't alone anymore. You don't have to do this –  _any of this_  – alone. Not ever again. We can work through this, just like we worked through everything else."

Clint wished it was that easy, he really did. But it wasn't.

"Boomer is dead, Phil." He stated in a flat tone. "He's dead because of  _me_  and you can't fix that." He finally turned, meeting Phil's eyes so he could see how damned serious he was. "You can't make that  _better_." Phil's jaw clenched but he didn't argue. "And you  _can't_  tell me that who I was there – that who I  _am_  – that it doesn't matter…because it  _matters_." He blamed the break in his voice on his damaged vocal chords and looked away again.

"You're right." Phil admitted quietly. "I can't fix it and all of that…I know it matters to you."

The restraint around his wrist suddenly loosened and then disappeared. He snapped his head around and looked first at his freed wrist then at Phil, who was settling back in his chair like he planned on being there a while.

"What are you doing?"

"You don't need that." Phil stretched his neck and blew out a deep breath.

"Phil…" Clint looked back at the restraint and clenched his jaw, trying to keep his voice level. "I don't want to hurt anyone else." He admitted in a low, whispering tone.

Phil didn't move, didn't reach to replace the restraint.

"You won't." He said it with such absolute confidence that Clint had to look at him again. "Because I'll be here with you." He leaned forward and held Clint's gaze firmly. "And  _that_  is what matters to  _me_. That you're  _here_. The rest of it…we'll work it out, okay?"

Clint just chewed the inside of his lip and tried to find it in himself to believe Phil was right.

But…he just wasn't so sure he was. He wasn't sure he could work it out this time.

He wasn't sure he even wanted to try.

* * *

_Two weeks later…_

* * *

Stephanie Maldonado, Steph to anybody that actually knew her, had grown up with four older brothers. She was no stranger to rough housing and usually had no problem putting men in their place when they needed it.

But what had happened with Barton two weeks ago was something she'd never been ready for. Her brothers had never put their hands on her neck and they'd definitely never threatened her with a knife – not one that wasn't a plastic toy at least.

She was coping, kind of. She wasn't a nervous twitching ball of nerves and in her opinion that was the best anybody could expect of her. So what if she'd made up – sometimes admittedly outrageous – excuses not to be in a room alone with any of the patients. So what if she'd avoided the entire  _wing_  of the infirmary Barton's room was housed in during the duration of his stay.

As far as she was concerned, that just made her cautious.

So maybe she'd volunteered to do more inventory counts in the past two weeks than she'd done in the last four years she'd been working for SHIELD. But the inventory room was quiet and most importantly, patients weren't allowed.

With a satisfied sigh, she marked down the catheter count on her clip board and reached for box of small gauze pads. She didn't turn when the door behind her opened, just called out over her shoulder.

"I hope you're not here for a catheter – I  _just_  counted them and I'd like to go at least an hour without feeling like my job here is useless."

There was a moment of silence.

"Catheters are their own kind of hell if you ask me…so, you can keep them." The quiet, intense voice had her dropping the box of small gauze pads, spilling them all over the floor. She spun, backing into the shelf she'd just been facing with less grace that she would have liked.

Clint Barton was standing across the room next to the door – which, she was positively relieved to see was still partway open.

His right arm, cast and all, was still strapped against his chest, keeping his broken collar bone immobilized. But the supposed handicap did little to reassure her.

"Uh…" he cleared his throat and shot her a look that she would almost describe as nervous. "I don't know your name…"

Well at least he didn't sound like he'd been gargling nails and chasing them with fire anymore. It made his voice a little less intimidating.

A little.

"St…" she had to clear her own throat now, but mostly because it suddenly felt bone dry, "Stephanie Maldonado." She chewed her lip a little. "It's a mouthful, I know..."

"I startled you."

Keen observational eye on this one. As if the scattered gauze pads hadn't given  _that_  away.

He shifted a little, absently cracking the knuckles of his left hand.

"Look, Maldonado…"

"Steph." She interrupted instinctively. His sharp, gray-blue gaze snapped over to meet hers from where he'd been focusing on something over her right shoulder. "Ev-everybody calls me Steph." She explained quietly.

"Yeah…" he didn't look like he was ever going to actually call her anything but her last name. "I came to apologize for…" his gaze shifted away from hers again, "what happened."

Apologize. Steph blinked, actual surprise flooding through her.

"Barton, you had a high fever and a concussion. It's not exactly your fault."

He met her eyes squarely again.

"Sneaking a knife in  _was_  my fault. And it put everyone here in danger because for people like me sometimes instinct is stronger than brain power. And in the state I was in, it was a stupid move."

She wondered what he meant by 'people like him.' If the self-recrimination in his tone was anything to go by, he wasn't exactly  _proud_  to be one of those people.

"Well, I won't argue with you." She muttered under her breath.

"Anyway," he sighed, "I'm sorry."

She nodded slightly, accepting his words and he nodded back once and turned towards the door. He slid halfway out of the room before pausing and glancing at her over his shoulder.

"It gets better." He offered quietly. "As long as you keep moving forward, eventually you won't remember why you were scared."

She swallowed, wondering if she was really that transparent.

"But…" he glanced purposefully around the supply room. "You  _have_  to keep moving forward."

Then he was gone, disappearing silently into the hall. Steph let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and forced her hands to unclench.

She crouched quickly, gathering the individually wrapped gauze pads spread across the floor and stuffing them back into the box. She paused, staring for a moment at her trembling hands.

_You have to keep moving forward._

She glanced around the supply room and sighed. She packed the last of the gauze pads away and returned the box to the shelf. Slowly, she moved to the nail next to the door and rehung the clipboard on it.

She had patients to take care of and it was about time someone put up the Christmas decorations.

* * *

Phil eased the roof door open and shivered against the blast of cold air that hit him as he stepped out. He pulled his jacket closer around him and tightened his grip on the extra coat he'd brought with him. He walked around the corner and mentally paid himself five dollars.

"How did I know you'd be up here with nothing but a sweatshirt and athletic pants? You  _do_  realize it's December, right?"

Clint, who was already looking his way, rolled his eyes and didn't bother replying. He didn't shrug off the jacket when Phil draped it over him, though. Instead he slid the arm not strapped to his chest into one of the sleeves and buried his hand in the pocket.

"Thought you might like to know our team in Cairo finally uncovered the source of the bomb. It turns out Ruiz had been coming back from helping spark a coup d'etat of a third world 'government'. The ousted leader didn't take too kindly to that and sent his general to kill Ruiz. That's the tail he thought he'd picked up and the whole reason your team was sent to escort him. It was just bad timing…"

Clint nodded slowly but otherwise didn't reply. Phil watched his profile for a moment and then spoke again.

"I looked for Reyes on the intake list of the mercs the team arrested, but he wasn't there. It's probably safe to say he got away clean. Given his part in your escape, nobody is pursuing him. But if he turns up on the wrong side of  _anything_ , SHIELD won't give him the same consideration again."

Clint tilted his head slightly as if to say 'that's fair' and still didn't speak.

Phil sighed and tried one more time.

"So I heard someone snuck into the infirmary and gave a nurse a mild heart attack."

That got him another eye roll and a dry look.

"You went and apologized to her?"

Clint shrugged slightly as if it were no big deal and remained silent.

When Dan had called him early that evening and told him the nurse Clint had taken hostage had been visited in the supply room, Phil hadn't quite believed it. But Dan had been adamant that the nurse specifically said Clint had come to see her – and had apologized for what happened.

Considering Clint had barely said two words to anyone, including Phil, over the past two weeks, the news had been surprising. But it was also heartening. It was a change – a break in pattern.

Phil hoped that meant more change was coming – that maybe tonight was the night they didn't just sit in silence. Maybe tonight was the night Clint finally decided he'd had enough 'space' – that he'd had enough 'time.'

Phil had been waiting, with as much patience as he could muster, for the last two weeks for something to change like this. Clint had asked for space and for time. Phil had given him both. Maybe not in the most literal sense – Phil had spent every night on the roof right along with Clint – but in the best way he could. He hadn't pushed. He hadn't asked questions. He'd just been there, proving his promise true.

Clint wasn't alone anymore.

It hadn't been easy, watching day after day, night after night, as Clint silently sat and bore the weight of his own actions and Boomer's life on his shoulders. It was a heavy burden, made even heavier because Clint was so goddamned hard on himself.

But Phil hadn't pushed – hadn't tried to lighten that load – because Clint had asked him not to.

And here they were, less than a week until Christmas, and Phil found himself waiting. Waiting for Clint to make a move, to say something and open the door that he'd closed in Phil's face two weeks ago. He found himself sitting with his hands clenched in his pockets, shoulders tense, and gaze forced to stare out into the night instead of at Clint's profile.

Then…

"You would have liked him." Clint said it quietly, half his face buried in the collar of his hoodie. He glanced at Phil after a moment, gaze more open and less guarded than it had been in weeks. "Boomer." He clarified, as if Phil may have forgotten.

"Oh yeah?" Phil prompted carefully, restraining himself from the multiple questions bubbling up in his mind. He had to let Clint set the pace, it was the only way this would work.

Clint nodded slowly, gaze growing distant as he looked out over the night.

"He reminded me of you." Clint's gaze focused and he shifted his eyes to meet Phil's again, gauging Phil's reaction to that – to being compared to a mercenary.

"In good ways, I hope." Phil smiled warmly, showing Clint he didn't mind, that he wanted to hear more.

Even though Clint's mouth was hidden in his hoodie, something in his eyes lit up and Phil could imagine the smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. He was sure some sarcastic comment was going to be headed his way, but instead, the light faded and the moment passed. It was a harsh reminder that even though Clint was finally talking, finally moving forward, he still wasn't fully recovered – he wasn't the Clint Phil remembered from before Cairo.

He finally pulled his face free of the hoodie collar and sure enough, there was no smirk in sight.

"He wasn't afraid to call me out on my bullshit." Clint finally explained, giving Phil a meaningful look. "Something you two had in common."

Phil couldn't help but smile, thinking back to Clint's first few months at SHIELD. He'd called Clint on  _a lot_  of bullshit back then. It made Phil wonder what Boomer had called him on, and if it had been something similar.

Clint's gaze had turned back to settle on tree line and had grown distant.

Phil wanted to ask, but he didn't. Instead, he waited.

He could practically see the darkness building up in Clint like a storm cloud and had to force himself to stay patient.

"There was _a lot_ of bullshit, Phil." The admittance came quietly and with a thread of emotion woven into it that Phil hadn't expected. "Sometimes it feels like it's all I'm made of these days."

"Clint…" he wasn't sure what he could say, but he knew he needed to say  _something_. But Clint didn't give him a chance.

"I lied to you." The archer interrupted. "I told you that I only fought in The Ring every now and then…to maintain my cover."

Phil's mind connected the dots immediately. He pulled his gaze away from Clint's profile and looked at the tree line as well.

"It was a lot more than that, wasn't it?" Phil asked carefully. Deep down, though, he already knew the answer.

"Almost every night." The confession came in the same quiet tone and the emotion woven into it was easy to identify – shame.

"Jesus…" And as much as Phil had expected it, it was still hard to hear – it  _hurt_  to hear. He had to look away just to take a moment to deal with that. Two weeks,  _two goddamned weeks_ , Clint had been with Ares – had been  _drowning_ – and Phil hadn't done damn thing to help him. He hadn't even seen it until it was too late.

"I got so… _lost_." Clint explained in a low, rough tone. "It was the only way I could keep myself from just…letting go."

Phil could  _hear_  the echoes of darkness in those words and the remnants of the old Hawkeye in that tone. It was like stepping back in time. When Clint had first come to SHIELD, he'd picked fights – with Phil, with other agents, with anyone he could get to hit back. He'd done it to try and cope. To find  _some_  way to feel better…even if it was just temporary.

"And did it help?" Phil asked quietly. It hadn't helped back then, at least not really. It had been a temporary relief, a Band-Aid on a gushing wound. At the end of the day it had left Clint with new bruises and the same old issues hidden beneath them.

Clint blew out a sharp breath.

"At first…" He shrugged slightly. "Yeah, it helped…but every day I kept looking for someone bigger, someone stronger…" the archer shook his head and sighed. "Boomer saw it, called me on it and that's when I knew he'd gotten too close."

"What do you mean 'called you on it?'" Phil asked, trying not to be upset that Boomer had seen what  _he_  hadn't. But he hadn't been there and Boomer had. And that's what it had come down to – _he hadn't been there_.

"Exactly what it sounds like." Clint scoffed. "Pulled me aside after a big fight and called bullshit, very  _loudly_." Clint shook his head. "He was convinced I wasn't what I was pretending to be and that mattered to him too damn much. I knew I had to cut him loose or he'd end up mixed up in the aftermath of taking down Ruiz."

"So what did you do?" Phil knew that with a perceived risk to Boomer, Clint would have gone to whatever lengths were needed to eliminate that risk.

"I did what I had to do to show him he was wrong."

Phil nodded slowly, but also frowned. If he'd succeeded in pushing Boomer away, it didn't make sense that the man had then risked – and eventually given – his life to save Clint's. He waited for Clint to continue the story, hoping it didn't just get darker.

"And  _that_ ," Clint sighed, "made me feel like shit. And I was pissed that he'd seen something I didn't want him to see…so…I went back to The Ring and fought again."

Phil wasn't as surprised as he should have been by that.

"And I let some asshole beat the shit out of me until I couldn't feel  _anything_."

Phil nodded just for something to do – to show he was following. The image of Clint beaten and bloody was suddenly impossible to get out of his head.

"And guess who showed up as I was hauling my ass out of The Ring?"

"Boomer." Phil answered quietly.

"Boomer." Clint agreed with a sigh. "And damn it, I was so tired of fighting that I just…didn't. I told him the truth."

Phil glanced at him sharply, shocked Clint would have broken cover.

"Not  _that_  truth." Clint assured quickly. "The truth about me – about who I am at my core."

Phil was sure their opinions on that were vastly different.

"He thought I was different…I made sure he knew he was wrong."

Phil blew out a slow breath, trying to fight the wave of sadness those words brought.

"What makes you so sure he was?" Phil challenged softly, daring Clint to try and convince him of the same thing he'd tried to convince Boomer.

"Because," Clint replied in a hard tone, "when Ruiz put me in The Ring after all the other shit went down and told me 'kill or be killed' I fucking  _wanted_  to kill him." As soon as he said it, Clint seemed to regret the words and blew out a sharp, frustrated breath.

Phil, for his part, drew back, overwhelmed by the sudden and new information.

"Wait, what?" He demanded firmly. "What the hell do you mean Ruiz told you 'kill or be killed?' Kill  _who_?"

Clint looked down at his lap and chewed his lower lip.

"I had convinced myself I wasn't going to tell you about this."

"Too late for that." Phil shot back sharply. "So you better goddamn explain."

Clint shook his head, blowing out a second frustrated sigh.

"After the interrogation didn't go his way," he explained carefully, "Ruiz said he was giving me a chance to prove who I was. Hawkeye wouldn't have had a problem offing some stranger just because he was told to."

"And if you didn't kill this guy…he would kill you."

Clint nodded. Phil sighed out a slow breath to dispel some of the horror that whole situation caused.

"But you didn't kill him." If he had, he wouldn't have been in a situation where he needed rescuing.

Clint shook his head.

"No." He agreed simply. "But I wanted to…I had a knife to his throat and it would have been so damn easy. Maybe if I  _had_ …" Clint shook his head again, more sharply. He couldn't go there and Phil couldn't blame him.

"What stopped you?" he asked simply instead.

Clint looked at him them, really looked at him, his expression open and his eyes honest.

"What do you think, Phil?" He said it like it was obvious, like Phil was stupid for not already knowing. " _You_."

And Phil was floored. For several long moments he could only blink at Clint in shock.

"I didn't want to let you down any more than I already had."

Phil still didn't know what to say. Sometimes he really didn't understand how Clint's brain worked. He would kill a man to save himself. He would kill him even if it meant giving in to the darkness.

But he resisted for  _Phil_ , because what Phil thought about him mattered that damn much.

" _I_ _ **don't**_ _ **care**_ _what people think. But I couldn't sleep last night because for some reason, I_ _ **care**_ _what_ _ **you**_ _think and I knew that I had let you down."_

Phil blinked through the memory of those words, spoken to him so many months ago now.

" _And I swear to you right now, that it won't happen again."_

When Clint had said that to him, sworn it to him, after his last, nearly botched training mission, Phil hadn't realized what it meant. He hadn't known yet how goddamned seriously Clint took his promises.

"You didn't let me down, Clint." He found himself whispering fiercely.

Clint just shook his head, not even bothering to argue, just silently disagreeing.

"No." Phil hardened his tone. "You  _didn't_. Whatever happened leading up to that, when it  _mattered_ , when you had to make a choice – you made the right one. All on your own. You made that choice knowing it had every possibility of getting you killed.  _You_  chose to fight that darkness. Maybe you did it for me, but  _you_  were still the one doing the fighting. I'm proud of you for that choice – for coming down on the right side of this when it would have been easier to just give up."

"The  _right_  side?" Clint spat incredulously. "Boomer is  _dead_  because of that choice and for  _what_?"

"For  _you_." Phil shot back. "He saw something in you, Clint! Something better than what you were showing the world and that was enough to make your life worth something to him."

"He was  _wrong_." Clint insisted firmly, obstinately.

"No, he wasn't." Phil declared just as firmly. "Because I saw the same damn thing 17 months ago in that alley in Vienna.  _You're_  the only one that doesn't see it, Clint."

"See  _what_?" Clint argued, his voice dropping an octave and his tone hardening. Clint didn't yell, even when he was pissed beyond belief. His tone, instead, just got darker and more intimidating. "A murderer? A guy who would have dropped that other fighter in a second if it meant he got to live to see another day? A guy who couldn't find a good use for his talents so he decided to become a contract killer? Or is it the guy who is so fucking at home in darkness that he wanted to  _embrace_  Ares instead of bring it down? Which guy is it that you see, Phil? Huh?"

"I see the guy that chose to be better than all of that." Phil replied calmly and quietly.

He waited a beat, watching his words sink in and then he went on.

"I'm not going to tell you that the past doesn't matter – that the 'old' Hawkeye doesn't matter. I know that it  _does_ and that it's not something you can just leave behind. And…" Phil blew out a breath, not completely confident how his next words would be received, "even if you could, I'm not so sure that I'd want you to."

Clint went absolutely still, barely even seemed to breath.

"I know that who you were before I found you, the 'old' Hawkeye, I know that's someone that you hate. I know that you've done your very best to bury that part of yourself and keep it buried." Phil watched Clint closely, waiting for a reaction, but none came. "And then I asked you to unbury it and it overwhelmed you."

He saw the muscle at the base of Clint's jaw twitch, could see the lines of his face hardening as he clenched his jaw.

"Turns out we both made a mistake."

Clint didn't exactly look at him, but his gaze shifted, glancing at Phil out of the corner of his eye but then looking back out at the night.

"You shouldn't have run from  _him_  – from who you were – and I shouldn't have let you."

Phil wasn't sure if it was a trick of the moonlight, but he could almost see a sheen of moisture shining on Clint's eyes.

"The old Hawkeye, he…had a lot of faults. He had a lot of darkness and I know that darkness scares you. But he was more than that. He was strong and fierce and damn near unshakable. And no matter how far and how hard you run, he will  _always_  be there. He's always going to be part of you – a part of Clint Barton. But if you're so afraid that you just bury all that darkness and anger, you'll be losing all those good pieces of who you were too.

"So don't bury it –  _use it_. Don't make the distinction between the 'old' Hawkeye and the new – just be  _Hawkeye_." Phil could see the tension building in Clint's shoulders again, could see the rejection of Phil's words rising in him. " _And_  be Clint Barton, because the two, they aren't mutually exclusive. Use all of it – all the parts of who you are – to be someone  _greater_ , someone stronger."

Clint swallowed thickly and still didn't look at him and Phil sighed. Tentatively, he reached out and slid his hand up under the back of Clint's hood, gently squeezing his neck through the thick fabric. When he wasn't immediately shrugged off, he gained confidence and spoke one more time to try and push his point home.

"You need to use it to become someone  _you_ can believe is worthy of what Boomer sacrificed. He saw it in you.  _I_ can see it. But unless  _you_ see it, none of that matters."

Clint bit the inside of his lip and shook his head, still refusing to meet Phil's eyes.

"I don't see it." He admitted quietly, in a rough, broken tone. "I don't even see the path. I don't know how to be  _both…_ I don't know how to use it without…" he trailed off and shook his head again, looking down at his knees.

Phil squeezed his neck carefully again and heard the words Clint didn't speak. He didn't know how to use it without letting it take over.

"I know." He assured. "But if there is one thing I know for damn sure about you…it's that you don't give up. You survive and you fight. So  _fight._  Fight to be something better. If you'll fight, I'll fight with you. We'll figure all this shit out together and we'll beat back your demons  _together._  Never alone again, remember?"

Clint looked away now, turning his face so Phil couldn't see it and shrugging one shoulder to dislodge Phil's hand. Phil pulled back again without protest and fell silent.

It wasn't exactly resounding agreement, but Clint had never had a problem arguing when he disagreed either, so Phil just let his words settle in and stopped pushing.

For as much as Clint had changed and grown since he came to SHIELD, some things hadn't changed at all. In so many ways Phil could still see that kid that had handed him his ledger a year ago.

" _You think I ever could…make it right?"_

Clint hadn't believed it then. He hadn't believed in his own strength or in what he could become – it was so painfully obvious now that he still didn't. But Phil did. And he would stay, right here, until he could convince Clint to believe it too.

He looked up when he noticed something white and flaky land on his pant leg.

Snow. It was snowing.

He glanced at Clint to see if he noticed, but he was still looking away. Knowing him, he not only didn't notice the snow, but would continue to ignore it until he was soaked and freezing.

"Hey," Phil reached to tap his knuckles against Clint's thigh. "Unless you plan on staying on the injured list even longer than that shoulder requires, we better get inside."

That did it.

Clint started, glancing around and then up. For a long moment he just sat, staring up at the sky and watching the snow drift down to land on his face. Then he closed his eyes and drew in a slow, calm breath.

And he nodded.

Phil pushed himself up, dusted off the snow that had already started sticking to his clothes and offered Clint a hand up. The archer looked at the hand, then up at Phil, then back at the hand.

And he reached across with his left hand and grabbed Phil's, letting him pull him to standing.

"Besides…I had a craving for a snack before I came up here so I sent someone for pizza."

The way Clint's expression lit up at those words made the extra twenty dollars Todd had demanded for his trouble completely worth it. That shadow of a smile - it was a step closer to a smile that pre-dated Cairo, pre-dated this whole mess.

As he followed Clint into the stair well, the archer surprised him by speaking over his shoulder,

"Rumor has it those two techs have been jumping at shadows for the past two weeks…what do you say we pay them a little visit?"

The smirk Clint threw over his shoulder looked a little forced and lacked its usual mischievousness, but it was the effort – the attempt to get back to normal – that warmed Phil to his core. It was another step. It was enough allow Phil to take his first deep breath in weeks.

Clint may barely be keeping his head above water at the moment…but he'd stopped letting himself drown.

Right now, Phil would take that as a win.

* * *

End of Cairo

Thanks for going on this ride with me yet again! I know this one didn't exactly end in sunshine and rainbows...but it ended with hope and that's the best Clint can manage at the moment.

Drop me a line to let me know how you liked the story and if you're excited for the next one...

speaking of which...NEXT TIME IN THE VANTAGE POINT UNIVERSE...

* * *

"The Untold Stories"

The world was under attack. It was something Natasha was familiar with after so much time with SHIELD...but this time it was different. This time Clint was gone. MIA. Under the control of a power hungry, narcissistic god. Phil was doing what he did best...lead. And Nat? Nat was stuck watching a super human, a god and another not-so-evil narcissist argue about things that didn't matter - at least not to her...what mattered to her was finding Clint. And kicking Loki's ass. "The Avengers" through the eyes of the Vantage Point Universe.


End file.
